The Meaning of Pain
by BlackDewInTheMorning
Summary: He got away from them and spent the next 15 years trying to figure out who and what he was . . . an animal, the Wolverine, or the human named Logan. This is his story. Covers both post-X3 and Pre-X1 time. Pointedly ignores XMO:WV. Features Gambit, Department H, and much, much, *much* more.
1. Dear Journal, Signed Wolverine

Rating for language and violent images.

**A/N 7/14/09**: This started out with me writing completely off the movies, seeing as I had never even looked at an X-Men comic and didn't even know where to get my hands on one. Despite this, I found Wolverine to be an interesting character who just wouldn't get his claws out of my head. As a result, this story is now massive, I own hundreds of comics that I nabbed off e-bay, and I have probably read almost every single Wolverine appearance to this point (yes, that is a lot). The lesson? Obsession is a great hobby, and makes writing a hundred times more fun and interesting.

Either way, it starts with movie-verse completely right after X3, and while I do my best to stay true to that universe the story evolves into what I hope is more true characters to the ones I have learned to really love in the comics.

With that, I hope you enjoy. Either way, please take a couple minutes to drop a review or two (or three!). Thanks for reading!

**Disclaimer**: Nothin's mine except . . . well, you figure it out. Wolverine's certainly not mine, nor is the universe (well, not Marvel's universe, anyway :D). I am not getting any money from this.

* * *

Chapter 1: _Dear Journal_, _Signed Wolverine_

* * *

May 22, 20—

_I swore I'd never do this._

_I talked to Chuck some months ago, just after getting back from Alkali Lake after that dead-end lead. I wanted answers, but he said some crap about "the mind having to figure things out for itself." Doesn't matter that he already said he'd do everything he could to help me. Instead of giving me anything useful, he gave me this.  
_

_A damn journal._

_Even another one of his lectures would have been more useful.  
_

_Like writing things down might help me figure things out. Right._

_I've lived enough of life, and I ain't one to think too much. I just get things done. Besides, I ain't a writing man, either, and never have been. I can just see it. "Dear Diary, Signed, Wolverine." HA! Wheels must have been crazy._

_And he really was crazy. Thought I was more human than I am. Thought Jean was more human than she was, too._

_For a man who could read minds, he really didn't know people that well._

_I'm just an animal, and I know better. I've known better. That's why I could do it. That's why I had to do it.  
_

_But he's dead now, just like all the others. At least I didn't kill him. I didn't have to stick these damned metal claws into his chest and rip his heart out. I had to do that, with her, and it was like ripping my own heart out, too. I think I've died a thousand times these past couple months, and thousands more before that. Died every time they died. But whatever keeps bringing me back . . ._

_Who'd have thought that a mutation of healing could be so friggin' painful?  
_

_Can't get away from it, though._

_Can't get away from who I am, from the death that stalks me. It's always stalked me, but I've never cared—not before. I didn't have anything to lose, not really. It couldn't get me._

_I'm a survivor.  
_

_But Jean wasn't. The professor wasn't. Hell, even pretty-boy One-Eye wasn't.  
_

_It was so much easier, before all of them. Before it all._

_Damn Xavier—giving me this piece of crap. Why the hell am I doing this anyway? I already know what I know, and writing things down won't help me remember the past that's gone for good, and heaven help any kid who thinks to puts his grubby paws on it.  
_

_A journal. Stupid. I'd ask One-Eye to burn it, smash it, or whatever he does—but he's dead along with everyone else.  
_

* * *

August 14, 20—

_Damn journal._

_Stabbed the thing clean through a couple months ago and tossed it in the corner. The devil must have brought it up again. Would have been just fine never to see it again.  
_

_It's 2 am in the morning—just had another nightmare. Wish they'd just stop. They don't do a thing, now. Stryker's dead. I as good as killed him months ago. His body's probably rotted and eaten down to nothing but a bleached skeleton by now._

_I guess that's right, though, even if everything else in the world has gone to the dogs. It's right that he'd be eaten by wild beasts, lost in the wilderness of Canada. That's right. Shows there must be a chance of hope for some justice in this world after all.  
_

_But justice aside-he's dead, and with him died with any hope for me to ever find out who I used to be._

_Buried in Alkali Lake.  
_

_Maybe Stryker was right. Maybe he wasn't lying. Maybe whoever I was before was as much of an animal as I was after. That I am now. Maybe before he ripped me open I was animal enough that this damned pain would heal up and harden just like my bones that won't break, no matter how much it hurts. Wish Magneto had ripped the stuff from me when he had the chance. Wish Jean had had the power enough to tear right through me and finally finish me off into dust and numbness. Wish it would mean something when I slice those metal claws into my own chest, trying to end it all. But it doesn't mean a thing. Doesn't mean a thing but more pain._

_Damn the cost of survival a hundred times over.  
_

_Cause that's what I am. I'm Wolverine. I'm a survivor, just like Stryker said._

_That's what everyone sees. All the kids here are scared to death, and the world's not staying too happy either. All hell's going to be set loose—if not now, then it'll come soon enough. Wolverine's gotta stay tough. Unmovable. And that's why Storm shouldn't worry, 'cause it doesn't matter anymore-maybe it never has._

_I know that death happens. Seen it too many to count, just in my fifteen years of memory. Never really thought too much of it, before. Pain was always what I hated—never death.  
_

_But Death was a good thing. Death was The End. The end of pain._

_But it'll never come for me. All I get in its wake is that pain, damned pain. And damn me if I ever let pain stop me.  
_

_I gotta move on. I've left the past. I just gotta make it leave me._

* * *

August 16, 20—

_Memories just won't leave me alone, and the professor's dead voice just won't leave me alone, and damn Storm for her 'You need an outlet' lectures._

_So I left a hole in the wall of the kitchen. At least I didn't hit Mr.-I-am-a-Diplomat, though I probably would've felt better if I had.  
_

_They shouldn't be complaining, considering, especially Blue Boy. Got enough money to fix another hole in the wall, but Storm was speechless anyway, and not in a good way either. Couldn't speak for a full minute. People don't act like that, she said. Damn people. She doesn't understand._

_You wanna hear, then? You wanna hear what kinda life I've had?  
_

_Summers used to say I was dangerous. If only he knew._

_I can't tell them. They just wouldn't understand. Even those who aren't afraid of me now would freak, because they can't understand how much of an animal I really am. I don't think anyone knows—Chuck didn't even know, really. Just Stryker, and me.  
_

_The kids, Storm, even Beast . . . they were born human. There's something there, I think, that just starts you off looking at the world like a human, no matter what they do to you. No matter that you're a mutant._

_I wasn't born a human. I wasn't even born a mutant. Not in this life, that is, because everything before is Nothing.  
_

_I'm different, even here, at Xavier's place where different means normal._

_For the kids here at the school one of the greatest shocks of their lives was finding out that they were different—that they weren't as human as they thought. That they were mutants. That they were different, and the world would hate them for it.  
_

_The greatest shock of my life wasn't finding out how different I was from all of them—but realizing, after all, that I was human. That I was one of Them._

_It was the damnedest shock of my life._

TBC . . .

Please remember to review! :)


	2. For the First Time

One review! Thanks a ton, blackwolfgirl. Nice to know you think it's a good idea, so far. Hopefully it'll stay somewhat interesting, eh? Here's another chapter to try and lure some others out, seeing as I got lucky with a couple free minutes today.

Hope it's worth something.

* * *

Chapter 2: For the First Time

* * *

Birth is a wonderful thing. A miracle. Beautiful.

The newborn is brought into the bright light, covered in blood and filth, its fists balled in furious confusion as it screams and roars its new-sprung lungs, its eyes squinting against the terrible, unfamiliar light. The world is a stranger, and there's nothing bright light, fear, and a strange, terrible sensation—pain. Pain where there was nothing before. Terrible, searing, crunching pain as if the world was starting the new life out with a beating—a warning of what life would hold, and of what he was bound to become.

. . . . . . .

_Pain._

His body tried to scream, or breathe, and gasp, but hot, cold, burning, bitter liquid rushed into his blood-flooded lungs and choked him.

_Suffocation. Terror._

Pain. White, deeper than bone, deeper than life itself, streaming down and cutting through his very soul as blood-darkened fluid flowed around him.

Metal gleamed, and for the first time, cruel metal blades sprung from his knuckles.

_SNIKT!_

He reared out of his restraints, not hearing the cries of pain and terror as he struck out, snarling. He stood out of the bitter liquid, dark blood pouring off him like a curtain of rain as he struck out blindly, cutting the men around him down. They clung to him, their painful fingers slipping on his bare bloody skin as he wrenched away, leaping from them even as his blades sunk into their human flesh. Their screams struck him, paining his ears, and the scent of blood filled his mind, as he cut them down with a frantic, furious strokes.

_Pain!_

He snarled. The animal rose up, and, and unbreakable metal slashed without care or precision, their only aim to get away, and to stop the damned pain.

_I don't remember much from the beginning. Most of that's just the dreams—flashes—feelin's more than memory. From what I do remember, I'm glad that's all there is. I remember the pain, the fear, the anger—animalic, wild, uncontrolled. Yeah, the anger was there from the beginning. Kept me alive, got me free, and carried me out of that place into the open air._

The agony faded into a dull ache as he fled, leaving him weak and shaking as he ran down the echoing black halls, his feet sounding heavily on the hard stone. He could hear Them after him, shouting, making noise that hurt his ears and made his nose twitch at the thought of more blood, more pain.

He didn't know why he felt it, or what it was, but he hated it. He feared it. The animal snarled to get away.

The darkness parted before him and he ran unsteadily, his feet unsure beneath his heavy body, and a great grey wall grew up in front of him, blocking his path. He stopped on his heels, jerking back to snarl at the approaching echo of footsteps chasing him, his angry breathing loud and blood-roughed in the closed space.

_Trapped_.

He didn't like it.

He backed against the wall behind him, the metal cold against his bare, blood-slicked back. He snarled at the contact, leaping back and striking out to leave three deep gouges in the thick metal, but it didn't cry out or move, not like They did.

He stared at the gouges, something moving in the back of his mind beneath the panic and confusion.

_Open the door, damn you!_

He snarled at the strange thought, but his eyes snapped towards the unmoving wall in angry confusion, flicking his blood-soaked hair to slap against his face, and sending dark drying smears to smack across the already stained sides of his face. He didn't know what that was supposed to mean, but something guided his hands, and he thought of sliding the wall aside, strange as it seemed. He struck out again, leaving more deep cuts through the metal. He snarled, demanding it get out of his way or die.

It didn't move.

And They were coming.

Panic filled him, and he struck again and again against the metal, and pain split his hands as new red poured down his knuckles from contact against the roughly-cut surface as he attacked it with all force and fury. It pushed outwards with a broken screech of a sigh at last, defeated enough to let him pass. He pushed it open with all of his might, and then there was _light._

He staggered back from the sudden blinding shaft, throwing his hands to shield his eyes with a harsh growl as the brightness attacked him. He shrunk back from this strange, frightening new pain, cringing against the wall in blank fear and confusion.

Then They were there.

Four soldiers, one already bleeding from a long strike over his arm, rounded the corner, their guns at ready. There was a frozen moment as the four pairs of grim eyes connected with the wild and bloodstained creature before them as he shrank in the light of the sun. He froze at the sight of them, and his lips curled up in a feral snarl as he jerked around towards them, his bloodied blades rising.

_BANG!_

The sound of the gunshot echoed a hundred times over in the small tunnel. The bullet embedded deep in the animal's chest, throwing him back against the wall as he staggered with a strangled gasp at the surprise of the new, tearing pain.

He wanted to scream, to howl, but blood filled his mouth and choked the cry. Pain blinded him, filling his vision with red and terrible white.

_They were still there._

A hand jerked out, and claws buried deep in the stone wall as he dragged himself to his feet. Blood leaked down his chin, but he lifted his eyes and snarled.

_BANG!_

It struck his shoulder and he staggered back again, only to throw himself forward blindly.

He had to stop the pain. He had to stop it.

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

The bullets were useless. Moments later they were shattered, and the men lay still in their own blood, their faces and bodies torn. The animal dragged himself from off the last blood-soaked body, gasping around the bitter fluid that filled his mouth, his sight, and roared in his ears.

The bright light from the broken opening in the door filled his eyes, and he lay on his bare, bleeding stomach as he lifted his head weakly towards it as he grasped his hand over the gaping wound in the center of his chest as he struggled to stand.

The agony was fading, like it had faded before. Strength slowly returned, and even as the pain trickled away he stood, newly clothed in blood as he stared at the light.

_Clink. Clink. Clink._

_Clink._

Four hard metal chunks dropped unnoticed from his bare torso, twisted from the impact against invulnerable bones. New sounds of echoing footsteps reached him, and while his fists clenched and his claws trembled in a mixture of furious terror and savage need to fight, he stepped forward and ran towards the light.

The door opened grudgingly, and he stepped out, then froze at the sudden sensation of wind, of the ice-cold white snow under his bare and soaking feet, of _smell_ of everything, beyond the almost overwhelming taste of blood on his tongue.

The scent of new soldiers, the sound of their beating hearts reached him. He glanced back towards the known closure of the tunnel, then turned and ran forward into the open world. The door groaned further open as the soldiers poured out, but he was already gone, leaping over a height of rocks to escape the terrible sound of the guns as they whistled over his head.

He landed hard, but was already up and running as they shouted and ran after him, lifting guns to their shoulders, and loud pops struck the white, cold earth as he fled, leaving dark red marks in the snow behind him as he ran, and ran, and ran.

* * *

_Memories came slowly, though I didn't even think of them as memories. Didn't know a damn thing that was going on—probably as innocent and naive as a newborn. I didn't remember anything, and even when I was just running away from them, the confusion of my awakening faded and I knew just the Cold, the Pain of my bare skin and feet and hands as I scrambled over frozen snow and damned sharp rocks. I learned the names, in a way, but didn't think of what they meant. They just Were. I knew Pain. Fear. Those who chased me were Men, who carried Guns, the loud, metal damn pain-givers that I grew all-too-familiar with in those early days. The redness was Blood, and it meant more Pain. I knew I was hunted, though I didn't know what to call it, or why. I just knew, somehow, that I was not going to let them catch me again.

* * *

_

The wood was still, as if the cold frost that hovered over the white, brittle branches were holding its freezing breath. Distantly—surreally—a faint bird's song twittered out of the silence, though it quickly went still as well as if even it felt the damp spirit of the wood.

There he crouched between the grey trees, almost invisible for his own darkstained stillness. Completely unmoving save for the slight rise and fall of his bare chest, and the white mist that left his mouth at each exhale.

He was crouched there, his arms around his bare chest and his bloodstained face bowed. Bare feet had sunk into the freezing snow, and now were pressed together as he knelt there as if for some lonely seeking of warmth. He was shivering, but he hadn't stopped shivering since he had gotten away. Maybe he never would stop.

The snow hurt, but not as bad as the guns and the men. His feet, hands, and body had bled more than once during his naked flight away from the compound, and he was already beginning to forget what had happened there, and the terrible fight he had faced in his escape.

_Blood. Terror. Screams echoing down the halls, rebounding against rock and stone and ringing in his ears._  
It didn't mean anything to him, the noise, the confusion, the further pain and weakness as red splashed the white snow around him. He remembered it as a blur, another confused memory, uncertain what had happened except that he had gotten away.

Forget everything but the pain, and those who had given it to him, again and again.

Remembering only the the fear, the hatred, the pain. Remembering the terrible sound of bullets, the sound of blades cutting through flesh, the screams. Remembering the snarling of his own voice as he got away.

He lifted his head slowly with a soft rumble of a growl in his chest as his eyes darted over the still wood, the trees, the open sky. There was no noise, no unnatural scent but for his own drying blood. They had left him alone, for now.

He stood slowly, letting his hands fall to his sides as he looked about, breathing in the world. Breathing in the confusing, meaningless clutter of scents.

He licked cold lips with his dry tongue, and something within him twisted unpleasantly. He put a hand to his stomach and looked down, feeling the sick twisting inside of him as he wiped his damp forehead with a shaking hand.

He was weakening. He could feel it, now that his mind was settling and beginning to comprehend his surroundings. Something was wrong, something not exactly pain, but it certainly wasn't pleasant.

_Grrrrr . . . . _.

He pulled his hand away from his stomach quickly, giving a warning growl. A bird fluttered over his head and he stepped back automatically, his head snapping up towards the small creature before it disappeared back into the trees.

He stared around suspiciously for a moment, sniffing the air again before satisfied that nothing threatening was near.

He looked back down, staring at the cold snow that hurt his feet and legs as he walked, and licked his lips again before reaching down and taking a handful in an awkward grip before lifting it to his mouth uncertainly.

It was cold and unpleasant against his tongue, but after a moment the solid changed and pleasant liquid filled his mouth, cold and sweet, clearing out the stale taste of thick blood in his dried throat. He reached down eagerly for another fist of it, for though it was cold he could feel some strength returning to him, and his mind began to clear.

_Thirsty, _something told him. It didn't seem exactly right to be eating the snow like that. Seemed like there should be something sweeter, stronger, and a lot of it. But he took another bite of the snow and swallowed it with a snort at the bland, freezing taste.

It would do, for now.

His stomach was cold and frozen, but at least it was still, for now. He looked back down, folding his arms around his bare chest for warmth, and something glinted in the light of the sun.

He paused, cautious as he saw the shine lying across his chest, then brought up curious fingers to finger the metal tag that hung around his neck. He held it up, staring at it and the marks on the smooth surface.

The bird landed on a branch close to him, eyeing him with black beady eyes, and he looked back with a glower and a warning growl as he let fall the dogtag against his chest, already forgetting it. The bird just twittered at him and darted away for good, though he stared after the odd moving thing. After a moment he shook his head, like a dog shaking off some sprinklings of water, and pale droplets of diluted blood flicked slight marks into the snow around him.

The wind shifted, and he went suddenly still and stiff, smelling the men who had been creeping up on him from downwind—from where he had come, and from where his blood-stained tracks led. His teeth bared in a soundless snarl, his brow furrowing and his eyes narrowing as his fists tightened at the thought of his hunters.

_Snikt!_

Claws shot from his hands without thought and he snarled at the pain which shot from his wrist to where they broke cleanly through his skin.

It was time to go.

TBC . . .

As always . . . review, review, review!


	3. Knocking on Death

Thanks for your review, Dark Phoenix Rising! It's great to hear from you.

I wasted so much time on this today. Hope you enjoy it enough.

* * *

Chapter 3: Knocking on Death's Door

* * *

_I heard somewhere why we feel pain. Maybe from her. Jean, that is. She probably heard me muttering about it sometime. Explained something about some kinda protection thing—like your body's telling you when to stop, or a warning that you were going to die. I never really understood that—not really. From the beginning pain was just pain. Meaningless—fading quickly but leaving behind an ache, and a damn memory of it. It's too bad that my healing factor couldn't just do away with pain in the first place. It doesn't mean a damn thing anyway. It never has._

* * *

He shrunk, shivering, over the crest of a hill, hiding around the trees and his whole posture alert as his eyes darted over rock and shadow.

He didn't know time, but the bright light—the Sun, something told him—had come and gone, but he couldn't have told you how many times, because Days and Nights were nothing beyond light and darkness. Time just was.

His legs were lagging, and his breath was loud, though he warned himself to be quiet. Noise was something he learned would bring Them. His step was naturally careful, and though his skin was white from cold, he left no blood behind.

He had learned that, too. They were following him, tracking him, perhaps by scent, but he had seen them following the terrible red that he had left behind, in the beginning. It had hurt, but he had made sure to stop and rub himself with the snow to get all the blood off that he could, so he would leave less tracks.

They were smart. He had learned to avoid them, when he could, by using their scent, but then they would hide upwind so he couldn't smell them, and would sit quiet so he couldn't hear them.

They had shot him more than once, that way. But he had learned.

Something was wrong, though. His body felt heavy, and growl as he might, his feet wouldn't lift as quickly from the snow, and something in the center of his body rolled and made him feel sick. He had eaten as much snow as he could, trying to quench this odd feeling, but it was no good.

_He was Tired. He was Hungry._

But he couldn't sleep. They were after him, and even when he paused to rest for a moment, they grew closer. He couldn't rest, or they would catch him again.

He walked onward, his constantly numb feet catching on sharp stones and leaving faint traces of blood behind that he couldn't help. He managed to reach the bottom of the hill before he paused, panting as he leaned heavily against the trunk of a thick tree.

He slid down the length of it, sitting with his back against it in the bitter cold and huddling his knees close to his chest with a soft growl as he looked about the woods. Nothing moved, not even the wind, as if aware of the strange creature in the trees' midst.

With another wary look around the wood, he drew up a handful of snow and sucked on it, letting it warm in his shivering mouth before he swallowed the liquid, but it didn't settle the unpleasant rolling of his stomach.

The glint of metal on his chest caught his eye again, and careful fingers lifted the dogtag. He sniffed it, stared at it and its metallic, empty scent, and then frowned, his brow furrowing at the letters.

_WOLVERINE._

It might have come to a shock to him that he could read it, but it didn't—he just could, and that was that. He just knew for a fact that that was what the strange marks on the metal said.

_WOLVERINE._

Was that his name? It brought to mind something feral—something wild and dangerous.

It could be his name. It felt . . . right, somehow.

At the same time, his stomach churned uneasily. Hunger, or something else?

He leaned back with his head against the tree, letting the cold metal drop back against his bare skin. His breathing filled his ears, and while he was so cold his whole body ached with it, weariness soon overtook him, and he slept.

* * *

_Hunger, pain, thirst, sleep. Most people just grow up with them, with the words, with what they mean. But I remember the discovery of the power of sleep when my damned eyes couldn't stay open and I fell asleep despite my best efforts. I remember waking up from sleep the first time from the throes of my first nightmare to confusion. Cut right through the tree I was sleeping by without even thinking, and nearly got crushed by it. Reality, dream, and fading memory were the same in the beginning, and I didn't dare sleep for days for fear that the darkness would once again transport me back to the room and the agony of it._

_I didn't understand the pain of my hunger, or the growing weakness of my body. It wasn't until I came across a wolf pack devouring a cold, hard carcass that I realized that snow was not enough to live off of. I tried to approach the animals, but they attacked me. I attacked them and chased them off, weak as I was, and though I didn't like the blood that they'd left all over the place I tried to eat what they had left behind._

_My first meal ever was stolen from a wolf pack and eaten off the ground with my teeth and claws, like the wild animal I was._

_Like a wolverine._

* * *

The red meat was not gone, but a pleasant sensation left him feeling stronger and better than he had . . . ever. He stood from the mess of red, his hands stained and his face sticky, like it had been in the beginning, when his own blood had begun to dry on his face.

He moved away, licking his lips as he sat on his haunches, lifting the cold, biting snow and wiped off his hands, his feet, his mouth.

He couldn't leave tracks.

He paused for a moment, looking down at the red mess of the slaughter he had feasted from. Food. Experience of his returned thirst again and again told him he would be hungry again, and he didn't know how to get more.

Blood. He could smell it. He had eaten it, with the meat, and the bitter taste still lined his mouth. The same sort of smell he recognized whenever he buried his claws into one of his hunters.

He was hesitant to leave this place, however, where he knew there was food. Yet the men were still behind him, he was sure. He hadn't heard them for some time, though—since he had hid in a small, dark cave under a rock, curled up against a freezing blizzard that made his toes and fingers break open and bleed before sealing back closed, but leaving them aching.

He didn't know why it did that. He didn't know why he bled, or hurt, but he knew he didn't like it, or the cold. It gave him pain, and though it went away soon after, he didn't like it.

Finishing with his rough cleaning and licking the last traces of moisture from his seemingly-constantly-numb fingers, he looked down at one of the wolves that he had hit with his claws.

It hadn't moved from where it had fallen. None of the ones he had hit had.

Its belly was sliced open, spilling its fresh meal and its own slashed innards over the snow, and its fur was thick with blood that stained the snow underneath. Its eyes wide and unseeing. He inched towards it cautiously, with a warning growl towards the still creature, but it still didn't move. It didn't even twitch with fear or caution.

It didn't smell right.

He bent down, sniffing it.

_Snikt!_

The pain in his fist was sharp, but familiar now, and he knew it would disappear soon enough. Life was pain, and because he didn't understand it he didn't wonder. It just was, like the cold, like the hunger, like the thirst and the men hunting him. Like the dogtag around his neck that he knew gave him the name of the Wolverine.

He held one bladed-fist forward as he reached out a cautious hand towards the wolf. Slowly his hand reached down, brushing the fur, and finally resting on the cooling flesh of the body.

It still didn't move.

He pushed at it, then prodded at the stiffening flesh with the tip of his claws.

Nothing. No sound of the heart or scent of feeling or fear. Nothing.

Just stillness.

The belly didn't heal itself upwards, not like he had seen his own torso mend together within moments of a terrible wound, again and again. The breath didn't start again.

He took the risk to stay close by that night. He curled up under the roots of a fallen tree to sleep, and while it wasn't as warm as his cave the night before, it was well enough. He returned to the feeding place before the sun rose, and saw that the wolves were still there.

Dead. Frozen. They smelled like the mess of blood and shredded meat he had fed upon the day before. And then he began to understand.

They weren't going to come back. They were gone. Dead. Forever.

No healing, no end of pain. They weren't like him. To stop the pain, they had to stop it all. The end.

He looked towards the shredded mass of red from which he had eaten before, recognizing the scent of blood.

For the first time in his life he saw Death—or, at least, for the first time he looked it in the face and beginning to understand the truth.

Death. And he had done it. He had Killed it.

And the men, who hunted him. He had killed some of them too. He had to have. He had heard them scream and cry and fall on the snow and lie still, just like the wolves. He just hadn't understood what it meant.

But now he knew.

A part of him snorted. Death Was—like the snow, the cold, the hunger. It was life.

But the thought made another part of him shiver. He wanted to run, to cry, to scream and howl at the thought and terror of it. But instead he gave a low snarl and stalked forward, leaving the dead wolves. He ate his fill from the now-frozen carcass of whatever the wolf pack had been feeding on, and then tested the wind before running forward again, following the stale scent and rough tracks of the wolves in the melting snow.

* * *

_I'd guess I followed those wolves for weeks. The scent of the men who had followed me grew old and eventually vanished completely. But they were never far from my mind, even as the memory of my beginnings continued to fade into nothing._

_I realized I had killed them, those men I had struck at in the blur of memory that made up the whole of my existence. I had killed them, burying my cold pale blades into their damned hearts and ending them for good. And it seemed that their only goal was to try and kill me._

_I didn't regret killing them. I never have.  
I watched the wolves, followed them, found how they found shelter, and hunted. I saw the deer, saw the wolves outsmart and kill the creatures, saw them rip into the innocent pale throats and fling the blood all over each other, the trees, the snow._

_I never killed one of the wolves again, but continued to feed from their hunt, though the meat was cold when I got to it, every time._

_I tried my own hand at hunting. Can't remember the number of times I failed—either by just scaring off the creatures, or being too slow to catch them as I darted across the snow, naked and cold._

_I was not a wolf. I knew it, even then. I was not the deer we hunted, or the rabbit. The bark the deer ate, and the kind of dry grass that those we hunted ate made me sick. Meat alone sustained me, and the animal in me wanted fresh meat. It wanted to hunt._

_I made my first kill on the hunt by climbing a tree waiting. Hunger made me patient, until a doe grew near and I leaped on it, stabbing it deep and shredding it until its heart stopped. I ended up stabbing myself in the knee and getting half trampled, but I was triumphant. I was a hunter. I was a survivor. I ate the deer hot, while its blood was still warm and flowing, and the wolves ate after I did, that night._

_Damn wolves taught me more about life and death than any of the men did._

_TBC . . . _


	4. Hunter and Hunted

Whohoo! Multiple reviews. Certainly makes my day.

Thank you all! It's great to know that somebody's following this!

* * *

Chapter 4: Hunter and Hunted

* * *

_Pain and hunger were my only constant companions that winter. I watched one of the wolves die—too tired and hungry to last the bitter cold of the winter, and their companions ate him so quickly there was nothing left for me. Saw my own fingers grow black, only to heal again and again. I grew weak, and in the cold of the winter I decided to leave them. I was a damn survivor then, too. I would not die no matter how weak I got—not by injury, cold, or hunger. I didn't need their company, and so I headed out to the cold white world—alone again._

_It was not long after I left them that I smelled man again for the first time in a length of time that yet had no meaning for me, yet seemed so far distant. Yet my fear and memories remained. My first reaction was to flee, but I smelled meat. I was so hungry—weakening—that it overcame even my caution._

* * *

The meat sat on the ground, untouched and cleanly cut, unlike the times that he had eaten with the wolves. The scent of man had passed into the trail and snow, but now he stood cautiously, sniffing and looking about thoroughly for any trace of the animal that might have killed the meat and left it.

He had never seen anything like it.

Yet he could smell nothing, and there seemed to be no imminent danger. He drew out his claws anyway, and crouched down with a soft growl as he inched forward slowly, his mouth watering at the sight and scent of the meat.

_SNAP!_

Fire shot up his leg as metal ripped into his calf and jerked against his metal-plated bone. He howled and leaped away, only to give a terrible snarl as the steel teeth dug deeper into his leg, catching him and tearing him, and scattering red droplets like rain around him as he fell, his bare back cold and freezing on the icy snow.

_Snikt!_

Sharpened blades cut through the chain biting him to the ground and he scrambled back, snarling at the pain until he was a safe distance from the now-forgotten meat.

Blood poured down his leg, and odd metal teeth clamped deep into his muscle, creating a jagged, deep tear in his calf.

He snarled and growled as he tore the teeth open with his claws, forcibly wrenching the sharp tearing things from his ragged flesh. He tossed it aside, holding his leg and whimpering softly as he waited until it was healed.

The pain went away slowly, though he sat shaken, but newly afraid and therefore furious.

Man had done this. The hidden teeth had been a trap, hiding beneath the snow harmlessly, so that he hadn't seen it before it had been too late.

Man had hurt him again.

He shredded the trap into slivers of metal, then went about the area carefully and set off four remaining traps hidden there—shredding them and ripping into the earth, the trees, and the metal in his wild fury.

His anger finally abated, he stole the meat and setting into his prize with absolute unrestraint brought on by near starvation.

* * *

_A hunter trap. Yeah, funny—the great Wolverine getting snapped by a hunting trap. I never stepped in one again though, and hell if I didn't become the best trap-thief north of the border. I even found other animals that had been less fortunate, dead or dying in the traps, and was able to steal and eat those as well. It was a good time—a better time, at least._

* * *

Wolverine sat hunched in the new, shallow snow that had fallen the night before, his eyes narrowed as he watched his prey—the two targets he had been following for some time now, and had watched them time after time as they'd made this familiar trip up and down the land, setting up their traps.

They were dressed in heavy furs—he could smell the stale, old scent of dead things easily, though it didn't hide their hated scent. They were warm and human, and carried guns. It was the guns that had kept him from killing them straightaway the first time he had seen them, but he had grown bolder over time, and now he drew close enough to hear their meaningless mumbles and growls.

He had already considered more than once simply going down and killing them. Their guns might cause pain, but it would go away, and the hatred that burned and growled in his throat at the sight of them would be satisfied. But he had recognized that these men somehow caught the meat that kept him fed, and being fed kept the anger in him content to wait.

So he watched them, making note of their placement of the traps, of their wariness.

They were afraid of him.

Were they hunting him?

He didn't know, but he was sure that they would never be able to catch him. Not these two, anyway. He was sure of that. Memories kept him wary nonetheless.

But he had never come this close before. Their growls were more distinct, but dull and almost constant, unlike the wolves' growls and howls.

He could hear them.

"Here's another one," one of the men said, and Wolverine twitched, cocking his head at the sounds that were so familiar, yet strange. Almost as if he might be able to understand, if . . . .

"Damn it," the other swore, lifting the broken trap from where it lay amidst a dark stain of blood. He looked around warily, hefting his gun. "It's not natural, I tell you. Something wild's got onto our traps—something devilish. Remember?"

Of course they both remembered that trap they had found, some weeks back—shredded and bloodied as it was, and the bait gone. None had been ripped to shreds like that since, but there were clear signs of their catches being stolen, and now and again the traps came up oddly twisted or scratched, as if some wild animal had ripped into it to open it.

But no wild animal could tear through solid steel with its claws like that.

The scent of their fear rose as they looked around, and a soft rumble of a growl rose in Wolverine's chest, thought too soft for them to hear.

"Let's go."

The hunters moved, and for once Wolverine let them go, though he stared after them, his brow furrowed.

_'Something devilish.'_

He knew what that meant, somehow. And he didn't like it.

But he didn't think too much about it as he turned away from where the men had walked in their clumsy, slow, large feet. Sure, the feet helped them walk on the snow like the scrawny rabbits and hares he had learned he could catch, if he was lucky, but it was different from the men who had hunted them, before, who had sunk into the snow but been able to move more quickly. It was strange, but he didn't have an explanation for it.

* * *

_The weather was not quite so cold—or maybe I was just numbed to it by then. The hunters practically gave me breakfast in bed every morning, and though I was almost always hungry, at least I wasn't starving. I found a small cave and found I could sleep there for some warmth, and might have been—well, if not happy, at least settled. It didn't last forever, though. It wasn't long before I stole some meat from a trap and ate it only to find that it was laced with some sort of poison. Got sick, and near coughed up my lungs before the end. Thought I was good as dead for sure, but I lived on anyway. Started to wonder if I even could die, except by those damned men in the shadows of my memory who hunted me like a rabbit, or a deer—perhaps to cut me open, to rip me open like I ripped open that first deer that I killed. I was sure they wanted nothing more than to eat me clean down to my damn bones._

_And damn you if you laugh about that, because there's nothing funny about it._

* * *

_Now:_

Logan paused, lying on the carpeted floor next to his bed and holding a pen in a hand that seemed like it should have been more awkward, but it wasn't. He lifted his head, sniffing as he looked towards the door. His sleep-ruffled hair seemed to stand up in its odd style even more sharply than usual.

There was a soft knock—one which probably wouldn't have even been audible for a human. A moment later the doorknob slowly turned, and the door opened a crack.

"W-wolvie?"

A small face bearing two wide, shining green eyes peeked around the door.

It was little Kylee, the youngest of the students at the school and barely seven years old. She'd been found abandoned in New York—left alone after she had started to grow a distinctive layer of tabby-colored fur. Now her eyes had grown pupils like that of some sort of feline, which were currently wide in the dim light and from fear. Her eyes went to the empty bed, and her nose twitched as she sought out the missing man.

Logan stood from the other side of the bed, and the girl ran forward on short legs and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"Bad dream, kid?"

He rested a hand on her short-trimmed, strawberry-orange hair that reminded him so much of someone else. The girl didn't pull away, but nodded soundlessly.

Logan lifted her up easily and swung her onto his tangled sheets. Distant thunder echoed outside his window, heralding some coming storm, and he wondered if this was natural, or if perhaps Ororo was having a bad dream herself.

There were times, ever since the professor died, and Jean . . . The weather just wasn't right.

Logan couldn't say he blamed her, though.

He pulled the sheets up around the little girl and sat down next to her, brushing her hair from her eyes with large fingers. "Go ta sleep now, darlin'."

The girl nodded, her eyes already drooping as she curled her fingers over Logan's bedsheets, breathing out a long, soft purr. He pulled his hand away, just watching her as her breathing evened out towards sleep.

He bent down silently, lifting the notebook and pen from the floor and lying on the bed next to Kylee as he opened it again, frowning at the page unseeingly.

He hadn't known Kylee very well, before, but apparently her age and size had endeared her to Jean and Scott. She had been able to get away from the soldiers, that fateful night when the school had been attacked, but had lost a mother that day. Scott had disappeared not many weeks after, and Kylee had been left an orphan once again.

No one could say why she had immediately bonded with the gruff Wolverine. She'd been withdrawn and gloomy for weeks, and he had come across her huddled in Scott and Jean's room about a month after it had happened. They'd had a short chat and the girl somehow ended up asleep in Logan's arms, and he asleep beneath her.

Was the first good sleep he'd had since he'd—killed . . . her.

Cut his claws right through her heart.

Since then, it was an almost nightly occasion to hear the feline-ish girl's soft footsteps, her barely audible knock, and then her soft sniff as she scented him out. More than once he'd come back from his nightly haunts and found her huddled up in his covers, soundly asleep.

He rarely slept when she was there, though. Not on the bed, at least. He remembered all too clearly waking up from one nightmare and finding himself in another—that he had speared Rogue right through her chest.

Just like Jean.

Damn it.

Damn memory. Another one that would never go away, and kept his sleep light as he listened for another uninvited visitor to his room.

Even locking it didn't do any good, seeing as Kitty had shown up more than once just by walking right in. Near scared him out of his boots, having her pop out like that.

"What're you doing?" Kylee asked, and Logan looked over sharply.

"Writin'."

The girl's odd green eyes looked befuddled as she cocked her head to the side in confusion.

"Mr. Scott always said you were 'ee-lit-trate."

Logan snorted and his lip curled. "Damn boy scout didn't know a—" He cut himself off with another snort and a glance at the girl, whose eyes had grown wide as saucers at the curse she knew he had cut off. "Go to sleep now, or you're off to yer own room, and I don't care—those kitty-cat eyes of yours are useless tonigh', kid."

"'Kay."

Thunder echoed their words and Kylee burrowed deeper into his covers, burying her chin into the warmth there.

"'Night, Wolvie."

"'Night, darlin'."

Logan watched her until he was sure she was asleep, the glow of the light soft on her young face. His gaze was drawn towards the window where a sheet of furious rain had begun to whip out its wrath on the world beneath.

* * *

TBC . . .

A/N: A little different kind of chapter, while I'm trying to feel out this universe. It's certainly quite different from everything I've ever worked with.

Hope you enjoyed it. Reviews are very welcome indeed.


	5. Man and Beast

Heh. Well, sorry about the longer wait between chapters. To tell you the truth, I've been keeping myself quite busy trying to read as many X-Men comics that I can get my paws on. Goodness, there are a lot out there, isn't there?

I suppose with my growing knowledge those of you more familiar with the comics may find a few little details or whatnot, but I still plan to keep this mostly movie-verse.

It's great to see more people are following this story now. Hello and welcome!

* * *

Chapter 5: Spring Awakening

* * *

_Then:_

The men had disappeared shortly after his illness with the poisoned meat, and when he followed their scent he found an odd sort of place—a cabin—but they were gone and the place was empty and dark and stank of men. He didn't want to stay there, and didn't grieve their disappearance long, because he had learned not to trust men or their food anyway, and he couldn't sleep with the scent of them all around him, even if the habitation was warmer than his usual hide-outs. He moved on.

* * *

_I'm not a nature-lover. Not one of those "I'm-goin'-out-to-find-myself-in-the-wilderness" kind of people. See, I already tried that, right in the dead of the winter, and it wasn't a pretty thing. But as winter turned to spring I found time to think around the once-constant cold. The world's a beautiful place, if you don't think about the blood, the pain, the killin' that runs the whole damn thing._

_It really is a beautiful place._

_

* * *

_

Meat became scarce again after he left the trapper's trail, but not so much as before, and he was strong. He traveled day by day, hunting when he could, and the world began to change.

The constant whiteness began to melt away. Beneath that, odd green things began to grow from the dirt underneath, and the grey trees began to grow buds.

The world smelled different.

He found a river, and though the roaring white current frightened him, and didn't move despite his snarls and a furious swipe of his claws to the depths. But he found the water there a thousand times more satisfying than ten times as many handfuls of snow, and while it chilled him, the cold was less sharp than the white crystals.

His bare feet trod more easily on the damp brown dirt. The air was softer against his winter-numbed skin, and feeling began to return to his fingers, and the awful, painful black burning of his skin faded away for good.

Food became more plentiful, and his maddening drive through the dead, winter-still woods slowed as he gazed about, almost overwhelmed by the explosion of sight and scent and sensation.

The past continued to fade. His beginnings were already all but lost in the fight for survival, and even winter's terrible memory of struggling survival amidst the pain was passing in the face of spring

* * *

_Spring seemed like heaven to me. Near forgot everythin' 'cept eatin', drinkin', an' sleepin'. A dog's life._

_But I grew restless and continued my journey, though I had no idea where the hell I was headed, or what I was lookin' for. Just knew that the world grew warmer, greener, and after some days, the scent of man crossed my path again._

_I was more than a little tempted to turn back righ' then and stick to the wilderness, but I had grown stronger in spring, and though I knew pain, I had defended myself from men, wolves. . . I even killed a grizzly that was trying to steal one of my kills. I wasn't invincible. They hurt me—all of them did—but I always healed—and I always won._

_I was wary. I'd learned how to be cunning, like the trap that had caught my leg in the cold of the winter. I had learned to think like a hunter, but also to avoid fighting the mountain lion when the deer would be an easier kill, and more filling. But I was no longer afraid. Of anything._

_I was the best at what I did, and I knew it already._

_So I walked right past that first scent of man, and moved past it. They were just another animal—another prey, or perhaps a predator, but one that could die. One I had killed, and knew I could kill again._

_Saw three of them, just walking through the woods. Figured they must be like wolves—hunting together, but they didn't notice me and I wasn't hungry, so I let them go._

_I can't say the same for the next ones, though._

* * *

Wolverine strode through the brush almost silently, his lithe and filthy form blending naturally into the wood. His hair had been roughly cut back with his claws, and his beard cut back into rough muttonchops. The remnants of his meals were too hard to clean from his chin and upper lip with the thick, long hair there.

He was constantly alert to any danger or possible meal, but for now he was relatively relaxed as he moved, pausing only occasionally to listen more closely to a sound that had caught his attention, his nose twitching at the host of scents around him.

The wood was pleasantly quiet, comfortable now with a new predator that was likewise comfortable in its presence. He paused to sniff at a tree, recognizing this as the territory of a wildcat, and a big one at that. He moved on, more wary, but not overly so.

Big cats were wary of him too, and for good reason. Still, he would have to be careful to try and pass peaceably, if they happened upon each other.

The sun was getting high, and the Wolverine was beginning to long for a midday nap next to the languid river he'd been following since before the sun had risen. He yawned and shook himself, then began searching for a safe place to let his guard down . . . .

_BANG!_

Fire shot up his arm like the slice of the bear's claws. He dropped to the ground automatically with a snarl, furious at the pain but unheeding to it.

_Snikt!_

He knew this pain. He knew the guns.

Man.

Wolverine ducked into the brush, almost disappearing as he waited, forgotten memories rising as waves of hatred, fear, and fury as blood dripped down the length of his arm.

_Them!_

_Wait._ He had to wait. He was a hunter, not the hunted. Not anymore.

"Damn!"  
The man was a stupid man. Like a rabbit, moving too far from its hole. He ran forward, the gun held loosely in his hand. Wolverine wrinkled his nose at the bright orange clothes he wore and snorted softly.

Was it a warning? Was he poisonous, or was he so bold so as to think that any animal would flee rather than attack him?

How could he not have seen him, even if the man had been hidden downwind?

Annoyance at himself made his eyes narrow. A low growl rumbled in the depths of his throat. The pain was his own fault. He had grown soft, with the coming of spring.

"Got anything?" another man called from where he was still hidden in the bush.

Stupid men. They thought they were the hunters.

"Swear I got something—a bear, maybe."

The man drew close, looking around.

Wolverine struck.

The man didn't even have time to scream. Nine inch blades buried clean through his chest, and a hand over his mouth stifled the sound save for a muffled gurgle as he fell.

The other man shouted, staggering backwards and grabbing his gun.

Fear. He could smell it on the other man, as he raised his gun and shot wildly. Fear made the shot go wide.

It didn't matter one way or another. Red filled Wolverine's vision as a rage overtook him.

He leaped forward, slicing the gun clean through the barrel. The man screamed like a dying rabbit, but then that cry was cut short and the man fell, his blood bubbling in his throat as he convulsed on the ground. One last strike and he went still.

Wolverine's mind and eyes cleared slowly, and he came to himself as he stood bloodstained over his latest kill.

He stepped back, shaking with the rush of the kill and the remnants of a rage that he didn't understand.

He had felt the rage before—when fighting the bear, when it had mauled him across the chest and ripped him deep. It had taken some time for him to heal from that one.

With a half-snarl, Wolverine shook himself and turned back to his kill.

Its blood was already seeping in to the dirt beneath the corpse. He turned it over, readying his claws as he sniffed at the fresh blood.

And he stopped.

He was hungry. He hadn't eaten for a day, now, since he had killed a deer and stuffed himself on it and had to sleep it off for half the day and night. It was hard to travel and still stay fed.

But the thought of eating this _man_ made something odd in him turn upside down, like the poison he had once consumed with the meat from the trap.

He shuddered, turning away from the body. The scent of blood suddenly seemed foul and bitter.

His claws retracted, and his skin quickly moved over to seal up the wounds left behind. He absently rubbed his knuckles as he glanced back at his latest kill, smearing the small spots of fresh blood from both himself and the man over his fingers.

Maybe the orange color was a warning. Maybe the body was poisonous, and instinct alone warned him not to eat it.

He just knew something wasn't right.

He shook himself with a soft growl and turned to the river.

The river was slow here, and he cleaned the blood from his hands carefully, letting the cold numb the dull ache from where his claws had contracted. Before it hadn't bothered him, and it still didn't much, but without the numbness and constant pain of winter, he had learned he didn't like even that small remnant of pain.

Pain was a part of life, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

He drank deeply from the stream, lapping straight from the river before splashing some over his face to shock himself from the churning of his stomach. He shook himself, letting the droplets fall back down into the cold water. He wiped the moisture from his eyes, then froze in mid-gesture as he caught sight of something in the water.

A man!

_Snikt!_

Flawless blades buried themselves in the river, cutting through cleanly and rising up into the air again without striking anything solid and soaking him from his blind lunge. Wolverine reeled back, panting as he perched over the water, his fist raised for a killing stroke as he searched for his target that had impossibly evaded him.

He snarled at it, daring for it to emerge, his nose twitching as he searched for the elusive scent.

There he was!

The man was ready to attack—his hand raised over his head and three sharp claws ready to strike . . .

But no. It rippled, like a dream, like cold winter-mist. Yet he could see the image, as the arm slowly lowered, mirroring his own.

He bent down with a low growl, sniffing at it, watching as the man did the same.

He looked different than a man, though. His chest was bare, his hair wild, and something gleamed over its chest . . . .

_Wolverine._

He reeled back and the man disappeared from the water. Something hit him then. Strong, like a memory, laughing at him.

It was a reflection—showing the trees above his head, the sky, the clouds. He turned sharply with a snarl, searching for the man that must have been standing behind him, but the wood was silent and still. He turned back to the water, and saw the man in the river—the reflection—do the same.

It was _him_.

_His reflection was a man._

A plain, clear voice spoke out the implications of that.

If his reflection was a man . . . then he must be a man.

No!

He turned away with pitiful mix of a howl and a snarl, his fists still clenched tight and his claws gleaming in the sunlight. He ran back to the men he had killed, staring at the bodies.

The last one he had gotten to was too broken—its face was a ruined mess, its torso ripped too much. So he went to the first one, drawing close cautiously as he stared at the corpse.

Staring at the man's hands, at his own hands, which seemed so similar, though his were still damp from the river water.

The only differences were the claws.

He let them vanish, let the pain fade. Turned the cooling arm over to compare the workings of the veins that ran beneath his skin. His hands shook, and with a feverish intensity he moved forward, ripping open the man's shirt to see his bare chest, bloodied and torn as it was—staring at his face as he traced his own rough features.

No claws. No paws, no fur like the wolf or the deer or the mountain cat.

He was . . . a man?

_He was a man!_

He tasted bile in his throat and turned away to retch.

Damn!

* * *

_Damn._

_Damn. Damn._

_There's no way you can know what that felt like._

_Damn humans can't even understand something like that. Can't understand how it feels to open your eyes and see in the mirror your worst enemy._

_Except maybe the kids here. Mutants don't exactly have a good name, to outsiders, and they had to wake up one day to seeing that in themselves. These kids have lived through more than most people should ever have to._

_

* * *

_

_TBC . . .  
_

There you go. Please remember to review. ;)


	6. Logan, the Wolverine

Well, it's quite early for me right now, but I figured I'd drop this by. Thank you everyone for your reviews. I'm glad you are still around!

Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

Chapter 6: Logan, the Wolverine

* * *

_Now_:

Ororo stepped down the hall, rubbing her forehead as the thunder sounded over the house. She half expected to run into the Wolverine's dark, wandering figure. He paced during the day, went to bed late, paced during the night, and woke up early to pace the grounds again, like a restless wolf in a cage. She wondered sometimes if the man ever slept.

Maybe he didn't need to. He was as disrespectful and snappish no matter how much—or little—sleep he seemed to get.

She didn't understand why he had stuck around this long anyway. He didn't spare an opportunity to remind her that he didn't need this lousy school, and he never bothered to answer her questions on why he stayed. He just would grunt and turn away, reaching for a cigar, or simply shrug.

"That's just how life's playing out right now, darlin'," he'd say, and go on with his business.

Always his business. It didn't matter if he was working in the danger room, or helping the older students or newest graduates-turned-X-men with their conditioning and training. It didn't matter if he was sitting on the steps with a cigar between his fingers and a suspect bottle next to him or if he was fixing the drain beneath the kitchen sink—it was his business.

So he didn't like her very much. She couldn't honestly say that she liked him very much either. They were complete opposites: Storm, the goddess of the elements, in control, the life-lover, and the Wolverine—a weapon, an animal, a killer. Wild. He made her wary, and it was not rare for her to wonder if it was safe to have him around the children at all. He scared some of them, she knew . . . And, deep, deep down, maybe he scared her, too.

So he had come and gone amidst the ranks of the X-Men for more than a few missions between his own personal quests—traveling from New York to San Francisco through who knows how many run-down motels across America. But he was still there, most of the time—simply showing up to breakfast some mornings without a word of greeting after going missing for a week or two. And he had been sticking around more and more, as time went on. In fact, she didn't think he'd gone off on his own for two months now—a new record, for sure.

He'd helped them out of hotspots more than once. She—along with many of the students—owed him their lives more than a few times over. Besides, Xavier had seen hope for him.

That's why she let him stay, for now.

She wondered how she could force him to leave and never come back, if it came to that.

Storm paused when she passed his door, spying the soft lamplight filtering out beneath his door and causing a break in the dancing pattern of the rain on the window as it reflected down onto the floor.

That was odd. In his room or wandering, the Wolverine never seemed to bother to turn on the light unless someone did it for him.

She stepped forward and noticed the door was open a crack—another cause for concern. Everyone knew that Mutant High's local feral valued his privacy above almost everything else, and the slight crack in his territory made her wary.

She put a soft hand on the door and pushed it open silently. Thunder pealed outside, and Storm readied herself for whatever might be inside the room.

She stilled as her eyes fell upon the two inhabitants of the large bed.

The top of Kylee's red hair could be seen fluffing out from under Logan's covers as she lay curled up to the man beside her. Next to her the Wolverine lay sprawled on his stomach, his hand still loosely clenched around a pen, and a thick notebook working as a makeshift pillow against his hairy jaw.

That startled her more than Kylee's presence. It was well known that the little girl had become a sort of foster-daughter to the burly, savage man, despite the contrast of her sweet pleasantness and his own constant grumpiness. Even though, it did worry her to see the girl in the same room as the Wolverine as he slept. She couldn't forget what had happened to Rogue; though the months had long since faded the horror that he had actually _stabbed_ the girl was still plain in her mind.

He'd been lucky it wasn't anyone else. He'd been lucky that she had reached out to him, almost instinctively. Luck alone had saved Rogue's life that night from Wolverine's innate savagery.

Yet Rogue still seemed as comfortable around the man who had almost killed her as around anyone. In fact, if the now college-bound X-Men girl didn't still have a crush on Logan, Storm knew nothing about girls.

She frowned, ready to pull out of the room undetected.

The pen . . . .

It was an odd thought—the Wolverine writing. He always seemed so gruff and crass that the thought of him reading and writing was practically absurd. Her surprise only grew when she saw that the thick book had a fair few pages filled, and the page he slept on was half-covered with his crooked, but again surprisingly neat hand. She carefully bent down, curiosity overcoming the danger of sneaking up on the dangerous mutant.

There were three distinctive gouges clean through the center of the book, but the words skipped around the rough tears that had clearly been made by the man's own claws.

_'That's what makes my claws itch. Damn parents and families turning against their own kids, turning them out like trash. Like Kylee here, the tiny little fur ball—barely six when they tossed her on the streets, to live or die. At least I could take care of myself, and it wasn't any friend or family that did this to me. I don't think so, anyway. No damn way to be sure.'_

And that was all. The rest was covered with his face or sprawled arm, and Storm didn't feel daring enough to try to move him to read more.

The Wolverine. A wild beast, even according to Hank. The mansion's feral. Heartless, some said. An animal at best, and dangerous without a doubt. The mansion had more than one gash or hole in the wall from his claws and fists, and even if they'd been plastered up, painted over, and hidden—they all had seen them.

He—this haunted, snarling werewolf—had a journal, and even if it was about as vulgar as his normal speech, there it was.

Storm retreated cautiously, beating down her curiosity as she silently turned off the light and closed the door behind her.

_What else did the Wolverine keep hidden in his personal journal?_

She was pretty sure she'd never know.

* * *

Logan was up early and grumpy, as usual. He stalked into the school's kitchen, helping himself to an almost ridiculously massive mug of coffee. He took a deep swig, grimaced, and sat down heavily at the table, apparently completely oblivious to his yawning, blurry-eyed, but clearly cheerful miniature shadow that plopped down next to him at the table and reached over a small hand for the bacon. She couldn't reach the plate of waffles, so Logan reached over and snatched one for her before plopping it on her plate without so much as a glance at her. The girl didn't seem to mind, though, and cheerfully doused the whole thing with a savage amount of syrup and strawberries.

Storm stood in the kitchen doorway, letting the still-waking-up students pass as she watched the burly man and his young companion. Rogue came over and plopped down next to him with Bobby on her other side, and the students filled in around them.

It never ceased to amaze her that no matter how gruff, rude, and just plain frightening the Wolverine could be, somehow he had become a central part of the children's lives.

He had saved them from Stryker's men.

Storm may have taken her place as the responsible leader of the school, but whether she liked it or not, Logan had stepped up beside her, and maybe even above her in the team of the X-Men.

He didn't even seem to notice.

But that was part of him. Wolverine would probably balk at any official leadership, but when it came to decisions it often came down to it that he simply took charge. If some of the kids got in a fight often enough he was the one to step in and break it up as soon as he felt that it got out of hand. He was the one that always seemed to notice when one of the kids was off in his own thoughts and thinking too hard about their recent losses, and while one would think that his hard exterior would frighten the kids or make them close up and shrug him off, for some reason they almost always opened up, even if there were some that he just seemed to bash heads with again and again and again, and others who seemed simply terrified of him. There were just a very, very few who still seemed terrified of him and made it clear they weren't comfortable being in the same _building _as him.

Ororo sighed, her brow furrowing slightly as she worried about those ones.

But even those disliked him, feared him, maybe even hated him—they still listened to him.

She had seen him organize a cleanup of a room after an out-of-control popcorn and soda food fight, as dead serious as he divided the jobs as if he were planning a battlefield assault, and with the same businesslike air.

He'd headed more missions since Charles' death than Storm had.

In fact many of the kids often seemed more comfortable with the rough Canadian than they did with Storm, and even those who didn't like him still somehow had some sort of awkward truce. And while it made her somewhat sad, she thought she understood.

She was the mother. She had to lay the ground rules, now, and expect them to be kept.

_BAMF!_

_SNIKT!_

It happened in a fraction of a second. Kurt Wagner transported into the kitchen, filling the morning air with the stench of burning sulfur, and an eye-blink later Logan had stood so quickly his chair ended up halfway across the room, and his blades hovered threateningly over the mutant's throat.

"Dammit, elf! How many times do I have to tell you not to _bamf _around in the kitchen?" he growled.

Kurt blinked, teleported out, only to appear on the other side of the table—well away from the reach of the dangerous claws. "Guten morgen," he said, completely unfazed. "Mein gute. You must have had a bad night. You look awful." He grabbed himself a plate and a waffle, and Logan growled out a snarling oath, which made the blue mutant blink. "Come now, mein freunde. Not in front of the children." He looked down the table. "The berries, if you please, Varren."

Ten seconds later, and an occasion that might have seemed life-threatening was all but forgotten. Logan's claws vanished and he retrieved his seat with a growling grumble, and all the curious students continued on with their breakfast.

Storm shook her head, trying to relax the tension that had leaped into her shoulders at the sound of Wolverine's claws being unsheathed.

Another typical morning at the mansion.

Why was it that so many of the kids were comfortable with him again? Oh, yes.

Logan was the rebel—almost like an overgrown teenager himself. He was the one that fought with her about smoking in the school. He was the one who made kitchen raids in the middle of the night and helped sniff out the hidden cookies that Storm had secured away for the next day. He was the one who took the kids out into the woods and brought them out filthy and covered in mud and responded to her indignant outrage with a rare-but-very-wolfish grin and, "Let them have their fun."

He was the one who, although he may not die for them, he would live and fight for each and single one of those under his charge if they were in danger.

And he would keep living, and keep fighting, no matter what. And that thought, more than anything, was powerful.

Wolverine was one person who most the kids knew could keep them _safe_, if no one else could.

He might be asocial—practically an invisible shadow lurking around and barking at whoever got on his nerves . . . but most of the kids were growing familiar with that, now. And his disinclination to chatter up a storm only made it so that when he talked, people listened. When he listened, people talked. She'd seen more than one student—young and old alike—sitting across from him on one of his favorite moon-lit windowsills, having a heart-to-heart talk in the dead of the night—them in their pajamas and Logan in his ever-constant jeans and wife beater, his wild hair creating an odd silhouette against the moonlight in through the window.

He just had that way with people, even if in the light of day he would never own up to it. Like a rough-looking housedog—dangerous to strangers, gruff and tough on the outside, but protective as a mother lion to his own.

Storm stifled a chuckle at that thought. That was one good thing about not having two psychics in the house, she mused with a sad smile. She could be much more creative in her mind, so long as no one else ever found out.

She'd hate to see the destruction if Logan every found out she'd been comparing him to an over-sized, scruffy, big-pawed hound dog, albeit a feisty and sometimes just plain nasty one.

She glanced over, frowning suddenly at the still-gaping hole in the kitchen wall from one of Logan's violent outbursts the day before.

That was another thing he needed to take care of—that temper of his, which had only gotten worse since Jean and the professor's death. But even the alarm from that seemed to be slowly wearing off of the mansion's residents. The kids had just fallen silent, not speaking, but not exactly alarmed anymore at Wolverine's tantrums at this point. A sort of foster-father/rebel-older-brother to them all.

It was just Logan, the Wolverine. He just was.

And Kurt, somehow, seemed to fit along better with all of them since his return to the institute. Even with Wolverine, though they were about as different as two men could be. Storm had seen them sitting out on the porch like good old drinking buddies more than a few times.

Logan finished his coffee and pushed his plate away, standing roughly and yawning broadly like the animal whose name he had chosen—or that had been given to him. He shook himself and pulled a cigar from his pocket, giving a last glare at Nightcrawler as he did so, but Kurt didn't notice (or at least he tactfully pretended not to as he asked Peter to pass the milk).

His eyes caught Ororo's, and stayed on hers as he lit up and took a long draw, almost as if he were daring her to say something, though his eyes lacked the challenge. He just didn't care if she protested, and didn't care if she didn't. He was doing it anyway. He wasn't looking for a fight this early in the morning, despite all appearances.

Rogue said goodbye and Logan lifted a hand briefly back at her.

"See ya later, kid," he muttered.

He could have been talking to a number of them. He probably was talking to all of them.

It didn't matter. He _would_ see them later. He had decided, some time ago, to stick around. Ororo wondered when that turning point had been.

Was it before he had killed Jean, or after? Or was it way before that, when he had saved Rogue on the Statue of Liberty—or when he had seen her for the first time, alone and all but abandoned in the wilds of Canada?

Storm sighed as he walked past her, and waited until he had padded down the hall until she swept up a slight breeze to get rid of the remaining smoke and stench from both Kurt's coming and Logan's cigar.

That was the Wolverine.

* * *

Logan strode towards his room, muttering absent greetings to the kids that passed him with their sleepy "good mornings"—except for Kitty, who smiled and met him with a cheerful, "Good morning, Wolvie!" Her younger friend, Jubilee Lee stayed in the shadow of her friend, not meeting the large man's eyes as she kept her head low as if trying to stay invisible despite her outrageous yellow coat.

He made sure to give her one of his darkest glares for Kitty, but she didn't even seem to notice, though Jubilee glanced over at him and her eyes widened before she looked away and hurried away. Logan grimaced.

He went into his room, running a hand through his still-damp hair from his morning run, before he had returned to wake Kylee and get her dressed for the day. He dug out the journal and pen that he had carefully buried under the depths of his mattress, then sat back on the floor against the bed frame and wrote.

* * *

_I didn't know what to do, exactly. I half wanted to turn back into the wilds and just forget it all. Forget I was a man. Forget everything all over again._

_But I couldn't. Already then, I had spent plenty of time wondering what I was, and why there weren't others like me. Now I thought I had an answer._

_I once saw my wolf pack get in a fight with another wolf pack—something about territory, and surviving. I just couldn't figure what I had done to make my own kind turn against me._

* * *

_TBC . . . _


	7. Out'n'Back

Only two reviews for this last chapter, eh? Hm. That's slightly depressing, but maybe everyone out there is reading the new Harry Potter book. Well, that's no excuse. ;)

So thank you Rowena DeVandal for your review. Thanks for your correction with Genosha-it was indeed a mistake. As for Jubilee . . . . We'll see what happens with her, eh? ;) I'm very glad you're still enjoying the story.

tmctflyboy, thank you for your review as well! I'm glad you like the journal stuff-I love Wolverine's internal commentary throughout the comics, and I figure that was as close as I could get for a fanfiction story.

This chapter is dedicated to you two!

* * *

Chapter 7: Out'n'Back

* * *

_Then:_

He stole the man's trousers. They were too big around the waist and a bit long, but he didn't really notice or care.

He found a worn leather wallet in the pocket. He sniffed it carefully, then opened it up, staring at the pictures inside.

_Family_.

A human with long hair—and her shape was different. A woman.

Two small ones—pups. No—kids. That was it. They were kids.

Something irked the back of his mind and he turned the photos over to pull out the odd cards and papers from the wallet. He sniffed each worthless item before casting it aside with a snort.

Credit cards, receipts . . . a driver's license that the Wolverine stared at for a long moment, until the symbols formed together to form words.

_Read_. That was it. He could read. Just like his tag—the one he had had from the beginning.

_Name: John McLellin. Birthdate 1/10/1957. Eye color: Brown. Hair: Brown. Height: 5:10"._

He blinked at the information. A name. He paused, lifting his dogtag from his chest.

Birth date . . .

Birth?

Just a vague memory of pain, fear, and hatred.

But no. That wasn't how it was supposed to be, something told him. The little ones. The kids. Even smaller ones, like helpless pups with their eyes still closed.

Birth.

But he didn't have any parents. He didn't have a memory of any childhood. Time was short—limited—and all he remembered was _this_.

He looked down at his fists where he knew his claws could shoot out of his knuckles. They were not a child's hands. They never had been.

He had never been small. He just was as he was, since the beginning.

_But that wasn't right. That wasn't right at all. Something was missing._

He shook his head.

Brown. A color. Color like the world—brown, green, red, blue . . . That's right. He could remember color.

He stared at the card a moment later before tossing it aside with the other useless papers. He looked up, sniffing carefully.

Blue sky. He knew that. Somehow he had known that for a long time, he just hadn't thought about it.

But he was uneasy. Something moved inside of him, making him restless, making him want to hunt, or run, or sleep until he could wake up and know . . . .

Know what?

_Everything's all wrong._

He snarled, throwing aside the rest of the wallet aside and causing longer, lighter papers to scatter.

_Money._

He blinked at the thought, but then reached down and picked up one of the bills.

_Money_.

It meant meat, water. Good, sweet water, and warmth.

How the hell did that work?

He gave a low growl and sniffed at it closely, examining closely all the small print, but none of it made sense.

He crumbled up the money and let it drop to the ground. The wadded bill rested there in the dirt, unmoving and completely useless.

_Paper_. Just damn, useless paper. No good out here.

But it _meant_ something.

With a final grimace he snagged the bills and stuffed them roughly in his pocket.

What the hell? It's not like the stuff was hard to carry around.

He walked onwards.

* * *

_Probably the damndest thing about people is this thing they got with their money. I've seen them kill each other over a handful of it. Seen them sell themselves to get it. I've wondered who was the first one to ever think of trading some piece of paper for something of worth. He must have been a damn fool. One way or another, I guess we've all turned out just like him._

_

* * *

_

_Now:_

"Ah, come awn, Logan! We don't need this!" Rogue complained, climbing over the rocks on which the Wolverine was standing, peering over the seemingly endless wood around them.

"Sure you don't," Logan replied to that, not looking at her. "If you ever get lost in the wilderness somewhere, you'd be just fine."

"Then why are we here?" Bobby asked, coming up behind Rogue, who was busy glaring at Logan's back.

Logan gave a low growl. "Damn it, kid. It's called sarcasm. You five wouldn't last two days out here on your own. Not without one of those malls of yours." He jumped down from his perch and moved forward, leading the way.

"Oh, a mall," Kitty sighed, reaching Rogue's side and leaning on her heavily. "With an ice cream shop."

"Music shop and that one store—you know, Jubes? The one with the big cushions you can just lie in and sleep all day," Kitty added.

"And foot massages," Jubilee said, shifting in her sneakers gingerly.

Logan twitched slightly at that. "Foot massages?" he repeated to himself, his voice grumbling. What the hell?

Yet Jubilee seemed to hear him and shrunk away.

_Damn the little brat._

She was the youngest one that had come along—mostly because of her friendship with the older students—but that didn't mean that Wolverine had argued long and hard with Storm about keeping her back and letting him bring Colossus instead. But the strong kid had stayed behind because of his experience—just in case anything happened.

They couldn't be too careful, these days.

Bobby twisted his hand, forming an odd sort of cone of snow. He bit into it. "What I'd give to be there instead of stuck out here in the middle of—"

Suddenly he turned, stopping and crossing his arms over his layers of shirts and jacket. "All right, then," he said. "You all think you know something, do you? Good, 'cause this is what we're doing. Storm's not comin' back for us for five days. Until then, you're on your own."

"This is pointless, Logan," Warren said. "If I ever _did _get stuck out here, I'd just fly until I found a road or town or something."

"What if you were hurt?" Logan challenged. "And damn it, kid, there are enough places out here that even _you_ migh' not be able to find people by, even for days. Try flying on an empty stomach for three days."

"Wait a minute," Bobby spoke up. "What did you mean, we're on our own?"

Logan smiled, and if it was small the light in his eyes was almost gleeful, if one could describe such a look to belong to the famed Wolverine. Bobby went still—he hadn't seen that expression on Logan's face since before Scott Summers had gone MIA, and Logan had had something quite nasty up his sleeve for the leader of the X-Men.

"Oh, I _so_ saw this one comin'!" Rogue sighed.

"Oh no," Kitty agreed with her own sigh of doom.

"You say you don't need this. Fine. I'll be 'round, just in case. But you want to eat, you figure it out. I'm just followin'."

"Fine," Bobby said, looking around at Kitty, Jubilee, Rogue, and Warren. "Follow me, I guess." He started south.

"No," Rogue said. "Ah think we shoul' head north instead."

Five puzzled eyes looked at her.

"Damn it, kid, you can't do that," Logan muttered, looking a bit disappointed that his fun was being ruined.

"Hey, it ain't my fault a bit of you's still stuck in mah head," Rogue grinned at him. "Come on, y'all. Let's head out. Ah may not be able to smell it, but ah'd say it looks like rain."

* * *

_They don't take these survival tests seriously. I guess that's a good thing, in a way—or at least means something good about the kids. It's hard to take something seriously until you can understand what it means, and these kids don't understand sheer survival—not really. Not even these ones, though they know better than most. Most of them've been out on their own, like Rogue, or Sugar-rush over there, but it's different to live as a person or an animal. See, an animal just needs to live to survive. A man, I've learned, needs much, much more than just that. These kids need more. They can't run wild and survive out here like I did. I've lived out here in the wilderness. I could do it again, even put out in the middle of winter without shelter, food, or clothes. I've done it. But these kids . . . they need teaching. And I learned things, back then. But first they need to learn how the damn world isn't going to stop for them just because they are at the top of the food chain, because out here there is no chain, no order. Just the land and the animal._

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine walked on, the day after his discovery that he was a man—a deep scowl on his face as he walked awkwardly through the woods with one hand holding up his pants, which were in serious danger of slipping every time he let them go.

He was hungry.

But something had woken up in him, and for once in his memory, hunger just didn't matter as much.

He paused to drink at the river and munched on some green berries. They made his stomach churn, but at least they were something.

He paused, wishing for the nap that had been calling for him for hours now, since he had fled the sight of his last kill.

Murder?

It was a strange word. That was it—a word. Something of a language—like the sun, and the cold, and the pain. Murder was a word too, it had meaning. It was like killing, only worse.

It was bad.

Bad?

But _they _had murdered. They had _wasted_! _They_ were bad!

The Wolverine stopped in his tracks, scratching his head roughly and giving himself a shake with a soft snort.

Human. He was human.

Was he bad?

Bad didn't feel good. Bad was like pain. Bad was . . . killing?

Bad was hate, and anger, and blood, and being sick and cold . . . .

He stopped again, this time in his mental tracks.

But those were Life. Was life bad?

What was good, then?

Warmth. The sunlight. A long nap in the sun. Cold water, fresh meat.

But he had to kill to get fresh meat, and he couldn't help it if he was cold, or hurt, even if he tried not to get cold.

Hot blood running over his hands, the joy of a fresh kill. The pain of the claws ripping through his skin as fury rose through him, snarling with animalistic joy and rage as they slashed through flesh and bones . . . These were good.

No. They were bad.

He snorted, running a hand through his hair.

_Damn humans think too much._

But he was a human—wasn't he? Was that why his head was starting to hurt?

Humans tried to kill him—to murder him? They caused him pain, and he hated them.

Were they bad?

He gave a low groan, rubbing his forehead with both hands as the stolen pants slipped further down his waist and hung there precariously, unnoticed.

He wanted to try, at least—to find out _why_ they hunted him.

But how?

It seemed like he had understood the men . . . sometimes. _Talking_.

He paused, lifting up his face and sniffing the still air and growling softly.

He wanted to greet it the world. Wanted to wake things up. Wolves would growl and sniff when meeting, but what would humans do?

He thought about it carefully for a while, standing there in the ragged and blood-stained clothes he had stolen from the man he had killed. He cast his mind back, trying to think what felt right to say.

"Damn you."

The words were rough, hoarse, and almost more growled than articulated. He didn't know exactly what they meant, and felt clumsy on his tongue, but they felt right, like growling in the face of an angry bear and daring it to attack him—and knowing he would win.

He'd face it.

"Damn you," he said again, looking up to the sky. An odd feeling bubbled in his chest and he barked a laugh as he threw out his arms and shouted to the sky. "Damn you!"

The wood went silent after his unnatural outcry, but he—the Wolverine—sat back on his haunches and laughed.

* * *

TBC . . .


	8. A Lot to Learn

Hey, all! I've had this chapter almost done for a few days, but thanks to visiting family and a bunch of other such things I'm only just getting to posting it right now. It's kind of an in-between chapter, so more stuff'll start happening soon. I hope you enjoy the direction I'm planning on taking this!

Dark Phoenix Rising—I'm glad you're still liking it. As for HP—hopefully everyone will reappear after a week or so, yeah? -crosses fingers-

Rowena DeVandal—I'm grateful for any review, no matter how short or long or positive or negative (though preferably they aren't negative ;)). Thanks for your continued dedication. I'm glad you're still enjoying the story!y

MLC—Sounds like a deal. I'm pretty busy this week, but I'll move you to the top of my list. You'll be hearing from me soon. If not, send me a flame or something. ;)

On to the story!

* * *

Chapter 8: A Lot to Learn

* * *

_Guess I was a bit crazy. Still am, but I figure there's nothing to do about that. Beast's said I'm hopeless more than once—just about every time he comes down to visit, which is much more often now that . . . well, since everything happened. _

_I tried thinking like a man. Figured if I ever wanted to walk around them, I'd have to keep my claws hidden—after all, I'd never seen any of their claws, and I figured they must keep them hidden too. I didn't think to think that maybe they didn't have them at all. _

_I stayed away from them at first, though. Just watched them, like I'd watched the wolves. Like I'd watched the men before, along their trapping trail. And I kept moving._

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine stopped, sniffing softly as he peered down at the odd hard surface beneath his feet.

A road.

They were starting to come easier, now, the almost-memories—the _knowing_ things without knowing how he knew it. And he knew, now, that that wasn't normal.

He had been hiding near the road for some time now, watching the odd carriages—_cars_—that passed every so often. Cars that stank, and rumbled, and made awful noises—but they weren't alive. _Machines_. Not food, not even dangerous, unless he were to step out right in front of one, like he almost had the night before . . . .

He was hungry.

He had eaten a scrawny rabbit the day before, after having to dig almost completely beneath a large oak with his claws.

He decided that whatever he was—human or not—he didn't like digging.

And he was still hungry.

He heard another car coming and drew back into the trees, watching again—this time just two passengers.

Two adults—husband and wife, maybe? Man and mate?

He wondered if a woman might hurt him too.

But no. Women could be dangerous, he knew, but there was something else. Something . . . soft beneath the steel. Something intriguing, beautiful, and worth the danger for any man.

_Was_ he a man?

Only one way to find out.

They were going somewhere, these people were, and he was following the road. The scent of cars and people was just increasing, and he drew back, walking alongside the black road in the shadows of the spring trees.

* * *

_It's funny to go back to the wilderness with the kids. Going into the woods always kind of brings back those early days—when everything just was, and I didn't know what it really meant to be a person. To be a human. To feel beyond pain and confusion and hate and simple pleasure. _

_These kids are as helpless as lambs out here. If the terrain didn't get them, no doubt they'd somehow find a very angry grizzly and get it to finish the job, if they really were left out here alone. I've already had to chase one off when Ice-Brain decided to get showy to cool everyone off out here. Ended up hitting the big girl right in the face with a snowball. Nice. _

_They're helpless and they can't even see it, except for Rogue. She's like a natural out here. Good to know that something good came from her having my damn memories. Might just save her life some day. _

* * *

_Now:_

"What'cha doin', Logan?" Rogue asked from where she was trying to help Jubilee construct a rough sort of lean-to under a slight overhang of a cliff. Jubilee didn't speak—whether because of her continued avoidance of Logan or the large wad of gum in her mouth, he didn't know. It disgruntled him slightly—he was quite sure he had told the kids that they weren't allowed to bring _any _food along—and sugar was at the top of the list for the Firecracker, at least. He'd seen and heard her on a number of her sugar-highs, and he knew the danger, even if him being around was like dumping a pail of water over the girl.

"Keepin' notes," he gruffed, not looking up from his notebook.

"No, not like that, Jubilee!" Rogue said suddenly, but it was too late.

With a great shudder, their makeshift little lean-to fell limply on the ground—a mess, but a strangely anticlimactic fall nonetheless: with little noise, but just a little, pitiful slump that ended in ruin. Jubilee bit her lip and glanced at Logan quickly, stepping back from the mess.

Logan glanced up at the destruction without any outward reaction, closing his notebook and standing to stretch leisurely as the first raindrop hit the dirt at his feet. He pulled out a cigar and lit it with his pack of matches.

"No fair, Logan!" Kitty said from where she was struggling with lighting a fire. "How come you get matches?"

"'Cause I'm the teacher, that's why," Logan said, taking a long, satisfied draw.

"Oh, give it here, Kitty," Rogue said, coming beside her and snatching the flint and steel she had. It took a couple tries, but after a couple minutes there was a spark and Rogue carefully started adding fine shavings to the flickering flame. Logan watched with detached interest as he recognized a shadow of his own actions in her motions.

Another raindrop landed at his feet.

Logan flipped the collar of his jacket up, slipped his damned journal into the plastic bag he'd brought along, and stuffed that into his backpack before leaning back and continuing his silent observation.

"Darn it, Rogue, there's not a living thing in this place," Bobby said, clomping into camp. "Not anything to eat, anyway," he added, pausing to lean down and pull large burs and thorns from his pants, which were beginning to look a little worse for wear.

"If you didn't stomp around like the Juggernaut out there, maybe you'd see differently," Logan said. "'Course, you still wouldn't have been able to catch anything."

Bobby frowned, and Logan blew a cloud of smoke in his direction.

"Maybe yer city pigeon had better luck," he said, and though the words could have been seen as encouragement coming from someone else, all four of the students glared at him

_Drip. Drip. Drip. _

The rain sputtered in Kitty's infant fire.

"No no _no!" _she moaned. The gust of Warren's landing was just enough to puff out the last wavering spark.

"No luck for food. What about you, Iceman?" he asked, looking to Bobby, who shook his head.

Rogue sat back with a sigh, rubbing her forehead. "It's goin' ta be a looong nigh'."

* * *

The heavens opened and released a fury of rain that would have done Storm proud. Soaked within seconds, the kids grabbed their bags and huddled under the tree, as close to the trunk as they could get without violating Logan's very large personal space as he smoked contently against the tree. Large drops pattered on the pine's boughs and began dripping onto their heads. Wolverine just crossed his arms and didn't say anything as the kids stared up at the sky.

"How long is this going to last?" Warren asked, shaking his wings of as much water as he could and brushing his sopping hair from his eyes.

"Probably 'til mornin'," Logan gruffed around his cigar. "So, what now, Icicle? Still think you know what you're doin' out here?"

Bobby glared at him before looking away to glare at the rain, almost audibly grinding his teeth.

"Now what, then?" he asked.

Logan just blew another puff of smoke in his direction and shrugged. "What d'you think? It's a bit late even for me to try to fix up a place to sleep, after that mess you made.

They stood there, the drips becoming more frequent under the branches as they watched the sky grow darker.

Kitty began to shiver, huddling in her jacket with her hair plastered over her forehead. Even Jubilee lacked her usual energy as she stared out at the rain, chewing her wad of gum soberly. Rogue was pulled off her gloves and shook them out, then rubbed her fingers together, her teeth beginning to chatter. Their breath showed up as white mist in the chilling air. Only Bobby, of course, showed no reaction to the cold, though icicles began rising over his head as he tried to stop the rain from coming down through the branches towards them.

_Ah, to hell with it. _

Logan tossed the remainder of his cigar onto the dirt and ground it under his heel.

"Come on." He stepped out of the meager shelter just as a gust of wind wailed down the cliff above him, lifting his hair wildly around his head even as rain pelted his brow.

"Where are you going?" Warren asked, shivering with his wings around him.

Wolverine didn't answer—he didn't even look back. Rogue was the first to follow, and Jubilee and Kitty followed next. The boys followed last, following the sorry party up the cliff.

They hiked about fifteen minutes, and while the mud grew thick and the rocks slick, no one complained—either because of the noise of the downpour, or simply because there was nothing to be said. Upwards they followed Logan's rain-blurred form, moving quickly to match his even pace.

Finally he stopped, drawing close to the cliff and gesturing them inside to a sizable cave, which Warren could almost walk through without bending.

"Everyone in."

They hurried in, shivering and dripping on the leaf-strewn floor. Logan followed after the last of them, his own hair plastered flat as it ever was.

It took a moment for Rogue's eyes to adjust to the gloom of the cave, but Logan shook like a wet dog, then strode past her towards a fair pile of wood at the back of the cave. He picked out a couple fair-sized pieces.

"All right, Sparks. Those're mostly dry, but if you want to give 'em a buzz, we'll have a fire goin' in no ti—" He turned, holding the wood out to Jubilee. The girl gasped and pulled back sharply at the sudden proximity and almost slipped on the mud as she recoiled.

Logan paused, his jaw tight, and then he tossed the wood on the ground. He crouched down, pulling a match out of his bag. Soon a small fire was burning.

"You knew this was going to happen," Bobby shivered as the feral man bent down, gathering dry leaves and creating a safe circle near the entrance of the cave to allow the smoke to get out without suffocating them.

"I guessed," Logan grunted. "It doesn't take a genius to see somethin' like this was gonna happen."

"So ya went ahead and foun' a cave an' firewood and the whole lot," Rogue said, her shoes squishing with water as she came beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Good thinkin', sugah."

Logan just snorted at that.

A few more minutes and they were all huddled around the merry fire, courtesy of Jubilee and Logan. Their jackets were resting on the rocks nearby, and Warren was rubbing his stomach.

"You didn't happen to get anything to eat?" he asked the Wolverine.

Logan gave him a dark glare from where he stood near the entrance of the cave—the farthest from the fire and appearing all but oblivious to the cold and his dripping state.

"I'm not a babysitter, kid. You won't die from missin' a meal, but Storm'd roast my hide if I brough' you all back with pneumonia."

"Touching how much he cares about us all, isn't it?" Bobby said dryly, nudging his feathered friend. "Warms me right up."

"Survival of the fittest and luckiest, Icepop. You all'll live, and if you learn a lesson all's the better. So long as my hide's whole, you can be as damned miserable as you'd like to make yourself."

"Very touching," Warren agreed, looking to Bobby.

"Don't you have anything to eat, Wolverine?" Kitty asked, frowning at Jubilee, who was now chewing on her flavorless gum with determination.

"Wha's wrong? She just eat her last candy bar?" Logan nodded to Jubilee.

The girl pulled her yellow coat around her. "I didn't bring any food," she muttered, not meeting his eyes. "Just gum."

As if to support her words, her stomach gave a very audible growl. Kitty giggled, but Bobby just wrapped his arms around his stomach sympathetically.

"I hear you, Jubes," he said.

"Hones'ly, you two," Rogue said. "We'll find somethin' in the mornin'." But her eyes flickered towards the man standing vigil at the cave entrance, and he saw that look in her eyes.

Logan grabbed his backpack, pulling out three packs of jerky and tossing them towards the kids. "There," he grunted. "Eat up, ya whiners. But that's all I got, so after tonight . . . that's it."

"Thank you," Warren muttered, looking briefly upwards before grabbing for a bag. He opened it quickly and stuffed a handful into his mouth.

"Thank ya, Logan," Rogue said around a large bite herself as she shared a pack between herself and Kitty. "Brings back some good memories, huh?"

"Just remember I ain't always gonna be here," he said. "I jus' hope you all learned your lessons, and that you all 'll be listening real close tomorrow."

There was an unenthusiastic mutter of agreement, but no complaints. Logan sat back, satisfied. "Good, then. Get some sleep. It'll be an early mornin' for all of you."

* * *

Five days later Storm settled down the Blackbird and watched as Logan led the way to the ramp, looking as rough and gruff as he always did, and five bedraggled and filthy students dragged along behind him.

"How'd it go?" Ororo asked as the Wolverine dropped down into a seat beside her, creating a sound of slightly muffled metal-on-metal as his elbow connected with the hard surface of the side of the seat.

He grunted. "Kids still have a lot to learn."

* * *

TBC . . .


	9. Chance Encounter

Hey, all. Sorry this one took a little longer, but thanks to trying to continue to read a good many comics along with a number of fanfics out there that I have been so fortunate to stumble upon, I guess this got a bit pushed behind. But here we are anyway. I hope you enjoy it.

MidlifeCrisis-Thanks for your review. I've been reading your Hopefully this chapter starts us moving forward a little more. I guess in my mind, at least, this story consists more of a bunch of drabbles at the moment than a full story-arc, but we'll see what I can pull together. Hopefully it won't be disappointing.

RhiannonUK-Hi! I'm glad you're reading my fic, though I think it's nothing compared to yours. Goodness, your stories just leave me breathless. I think I need to go start them over again. Say, you don't have any idea how much longer it will be until the next chapter, do you? I hope it's not long. Anyway, thanks for the review, and I hope you enjoy my story.

Rowena DeVandal-Heh. I suppose you're right. But Wolvie's really kind of a softie under it all, I think. And he'd pretty much planned for the rain as it were-it was just the kids' insistence that they didn't need his help that he let them get caught out in the rain in the first place. As for Jubilee, she's a part of the storyline I've been working on. Hopefully you won't be disappointed.

CaptMacKenzie-Thanks for your review. Jubilee will be making a more prominent appearance in a few chapters. I hope you enjoy!

_

* * *

_

Chapter 9: Chance Encounter

* * *

_Camping. The end of the road led me to a campground of some sort. It stank of people, and the animals had been scared away so that the most I saw was a scrawny little squirrel._

_I could last some days without food, though, especially in the warmth of the season. I decided to take the risk.  
I drew close that night. I saw that the humans had shelters—cloth caves, and metal houses of some sort. You could have tossed me into the middle of New York and I would have been just as overwhelmed._

_Maybe, anyway._

_I saw fire for the first time, while I was hiding in the shadows. I must have made a sound of surprise or something when the flames first leaped up, since a kid picked up a rock and threw it at the bush I was hiding in; he must have heard me. It didn't hit me, but it reminded me to be more careful._

_I smelled cooked food. Saw them eat strange things, that certainly were not meat, and that they took from little packages and didn't have to hunt for them._

_That night, when everyone went to bed, I went foraging._

_I got shot at that night, but not before I'd decided that whether I was human or not, being around them was worth the risk of the pain._

_Just because of their food._

_Laugh if you want. But you try living your first months of life on nothing but a rare meal of meat—and rare in more ways than one._

_I remember the first time we had steak at Xavier's, before Alkali Lake—before I left. Had mine ordered rare and warm—still cooked enough to my liking, but not burnt through and brown like everyone else likes it. One-Eye got so queasy (Kept telling me to go off and catch it with my teeth if I wanted it raw, damn him. Doesn't know a thing about that.) that he eventually took it into his own hands. I ended up smearing a half-charred piece of steak all over his pretty-boy little face._

_Ah, those were the times._

_

* * *

_

_Then:_

Wolverine darted away from the human camp, his hands filled with something he was positive was most assuredly _good._

He'd had to break open the lock to the cooler with his claws to get to it, but the treasure inside had been worth every second of the pain.

Besides, the man had missed him when he had shot at him, so there was no harm done.

He slowed to a jog, listening for any pursuers and relaxing when he heard none.

He hadn't expected any, though. Men were afraid of the night. They liked to stay inside, with their fire and lights.

He didn't mind.

He stopped, falling back to sit against a tree as he beheld his treasures.

He stuffed them in his mouth—graham crackers and sweet white bread alike. They were gone in moments, leaving him growling softly for more.

But then, there was the last thing.

It was brown and waxy—odd, and wrapped in such a way that he had ripped it clean open with his teeth to get to the inside. It smelled different, but he had seen the little ones eating it, and it hadn't done anything bad for them.

Was he a human? Or would this poison him, like the poison from the traps?

He didn't know, so he just stuffed as much as he could into his mouth, and suddenly moaned at the melting, sweet, terribly overwhelming taste that made him sit back as his senses were completely overwhelmed by it.

* * *

_Chocolate._

_Don't look at me like that. I'm no woman—I'm not crazy about that stuff, and I'm not like Sparks and all her sugar highs. You just try going for your whole life without anything but meat and water, and then let me stuff a chocolate bar down your throat._

_Kids near went crazy without it our last survival trip. They'd always gone through that sweet stuff fast, but since we've been back they've been going through it like . . . ._

_Damn._

_Well, they've been going through it fast. No wonder why they jumped back so quick after the survival training. All of them've gone crazy since they got back-bouncing off the damn walls—just like they're doing right now. They've got their damn music trying to shake the whole damn place down._

_

* * *

_

_Now:_

Logan closed the journal with a snap, stuffed it under his pillow, and rose up grumbling. There was a squeal and a giggle that was clearly audible—to him, at least—through the ceiling above him. He stalked out of the room with a soft growl.

A couple of younger students wisely steered clear of him, stepping out of his way without a word. They knew he'd been either locked in his room or gone missing for hours on end even more frequently than was usual for him, and when he was out and about he was strangely broody, even for him. Since he got back from the survival course a few days ago, he'd hardly been seen except for a couple rare glances of his usual pacings around the grounds, and a break he had taken to fix a leaking pipe under the sink and to change the lightbulbs in the entryway—which was odd, because there were others who were more graceful on ladders and probably could have done the job even without a ladder at all—but again, that was Logan.

The world wasn't fair, Logan figured as he strode along. Sure, he understood that better than most, but still . . . .

If he wasn't allowed a good bottle of beer inside the mansion, why in the world was it legal for the Sugarbomb and Co. to have such a stash of dangerous drugs in her room? Dangerous to her, at least, and anyone in her company.

There was no use snarling at her for it like he wanted to—the girl was already terrified of him. Every once in a while he'd catch her staring at him, and when he caught her at it she'd just sort of _freeze_, like a startled deer.

Logan grimaced at the image that he was all-too-familiar with.

_Scared of him, _that's what. _Terrified._

She'd looked that way ever since Alkali Lake. She'd been one of them he hadn't been able to save—hadn't been able to keep out of Styker's hands. He didn't know what she'd seen, or what had happened, but ever since then the kid hadn't been comfortable being in the same room as the man known as the Wolverine.

Logan tried to tell himself that it didn't matter.

It shouldn't matter. He'd never cared before what people thought of him; why should he start now? Especially for some no-good, loud, sugar-high teenager.

He strode out the front door, taking a right across the grounds towards the stables.

No one was about, really. He walked into the stables, glowering his very best so as to avoid any unwanted greetings or conversation. The few students playing cards in there made a quick exit.

Good.

_SNIKT!_

A single claw carefully pried at a floorboard in the corner, lifting it up to show a slab of concrete that had been painstakingly hollowed out by some sort of blade—his claws, of course.

It wasn't like they could get dull anyway, the Wolverine reasoned as he reached in to retrieve one of his prize possessions.

A large bottle of beer, unopened and waiting.

He replaced the board carefully, then scattered dust and straw over it again before striding out again, feeling uncustomarily smug as he headed towards the front gate.

He didn't feel like another attack from Storm—she seemed even more on edge than usual, as of late, and she'd actually _zapped_ him the day before when she found him smoking in the kitchen . . . .

More of a prick than One-Eye had been, sometimes, though you'd never guess it.

Of course, she probably hadn't meant for it to be half so bad, but she had forgotten about his damn metal skeleton. Fried the freezer so bad they had needed to get a new one, and had knocked him out on his back for a good five minutes.

Okay, maybe not five whole minutes—but it should have. As it was, he'd snarled and had his claws out and was back on his feet before even thinking about it, his hair smoking and his teeth bared.

That added three more claw marks to the kitchen wall.

It didn't help that the whole school actually seemed to have thought the whole incident _funny_.

Logan opened the gates and stepped outside to sit down on the curb, pulling a cigar out of his pocket and lighting it. He held it between his teeth as he glanced both ways on the road, then popped a claw to open the bottle.

A long drink later he was feeling a hell of a lot better.

So maybe drinking was bad. Maybe smoking was bad. For the kids, that was. He certainly didn't want to see Rogue pick up a habit like smoking. It just didn't seem right.

For him, though, he figured it didn't matter. Just like pain. Let the smoke eat away at his lungs, like the Blue Diplomat was always ranting about. They'd heal up anyway, just like everything else.

He sat back, feeling the sun on his face and feeling content, despite the fact that even this prime choice of alcohol had little affect on him.

* * *

_Beer. I remember the first time I tasted it—on this side of the memory-line, anyway—as clear as day. Must have been a real drinker, before. Of course, no one holds their beer like the Wolverine._

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine crouched in the bushes, his chest rising and falling with rapid breathing—though this was not from any exertion rather than adrenaline rushing through his veins.

He was dressed in a soft, too-large flannel shirt he'd grabbed from a camp some days back, and his pants still hung loosely about his waist. The shirt had been buttoned carefully—though it had taken more than one try to get the holes and buttons aligned right, and the shoes he had likewise stolen hurt his feet.

He was hidden. Hidden like a trap—like the kind that had caught him during the cold time, since he hadn't seen it before it was too late.  
And he wouldn't go off unless he needed to.

His nose twitched as two burly men walked across the darkened street towards the loud building. Wolverine had seen them coming and going for hours, now, and had watched more than one place like this over the weeks he'd been traveling since he had found out he was a human. He hadn't seen anyone get turned away yet.

He had been watching. He was ready. He'd even cut back his hair, and though it stuck out differently than the other men's. That, at least, seemed to vary enough that he didn't think it would matter.

He hoped.

He straightened from the bushes. The animal in him snarled to return to the shadows, to get away from the cursed men or—even better—to kill them all, because they were a danger.

_He could do it._ Easy. He wasn't sure how he knew it, but without even thinking he knew there were probably a hundred people in the bar, and he could take them all down in less than five minutes if he needed to.

Easy.

He stopped in his tracks with a low growl, clenching his fists.

No.

He gritted his teeth, forcing his hands to relax.

He was a trap. He needed to blend in, for now. No one else was showing their claws.

He just wanted to watch. To see if they would attack first.

He stuck a hand in his pocket and stepped forward, his hand clenched around the dirtied money in his pocket.

He stepped forward slowly, breathing in at each step as if to adjust himself to the growing scent of man. He walked slightly jerkily, growling softly without realizing it, and standing straighter than he had in months as he tried to act like them while he wanted nothing more than to crouch into fighting stance and flee or fight.

A trap. Ready.

He would learn nothing if he didn't wait.

_Who was he? What was he?_

He hunched his shoulders and took another step forward, his hands clenched.

The scent of man was everywhere. It was thick—mixed with grease and sweat and so many scents that he couldn't separate them all. They filled his nostrils—made his eyes start to water. He sneezed twice and shook himself, stopping in the shadows to try and adjust after the relatively gentle scent of the wilderness.

And the noise.

It was like a beehive. He'd come across one of those only a couple days ago, and though he'd felt a lot of pain in his life he had decided that he really, really hated bees. They were something that even his claws hadn't been able to stop.

A man stood next to the door, smoke rising from his mouth—from a cigar. He lifted his shadowed face as Wolverine paused before him.

"You want somethin'?"

Wolverine sniffed, then snorted—taking in the thick smoke, alcohol, and human sweat. The man was no threat. His eyes moved over the man's rough face, his blurred eyes, his greasy hair.

This was a man? This was the dangerous creature that had hunted him for so long?

"Hey, bub, what'chu lookin' at?" the man slurred. He struggled to stand straight without the support of the wall. He staggered forward, and Wolverine edged back as the man came to close—wary, but unafraid. "You lookin' fer a fight?"

He swung sloppily at Wolverine, and though the feral man easily ducked the wild swing, the threatening action had been enough. Wolverine lifted a fist and slammed it into the guy's gut. The drunk doubled over and fell gasping onto the ground.

Wolverine looked down at him. If this was all these men had to offer, he was in no danger at all. He snorted again and walked into the bar.

A rabbit gave more of a fight.

The air was jumbled, thick, heavy. It hurt his ears, muddled in his nose; it made his knuckles itch. His growl rose slightly in volume as he tensed tight as a bowstring ready to snap as the crowd suddenly seemed to surge around him like water, like a cage.

For a moment he just froze, stiff as the men moved around him—but they didn't seem to be paying him any mind.

He pulled back from the general jostling—towards the back, where he could smell the excitement of the men—the excitement of violence. He jerked his head about like a wary animal—his heart pounding in his ears as he tried to keep his eyes everywhere for sign of danger.

He growled as he saw the cage in the center—saw the two men inside—_fighting_.

Someone was pushed against him—someone smaller, who just bumped against his weight.

"Sorry."

Wolverine looked down—the first time he had looked at someone shorter than him at close quarters—to see the person who had invaded his personal space this time, and had actually paused to say something. He wore a long coat and a hood pulled up and over his eyes, though he thought he saw a gleam in the shadows of it—like the red gleam of a hunting feline in the darkness of the wood. The spoken word formed its meaning slowly in his mind as his nose twitched.  
The human smelled different. He smelled . . . cleaner, though not by much. Smelled a bit of fear, of wariness—like a wolf aware of a larger predator in the area.

He smelled like a cub. A kid.

And one thing Wolverine knew automatically is that he wasn't supposed to be in here. That was only more firmly confirmed when the kid knocked back against another man beside him. The man—who was much larger than both Wolverine and the kid (perhaps even put together)—turned sharply, grabbing the kid by the arm.

"Damn it! Watch where yer goin'!" He threw the kid back sharply, and the force of the thrust threw the kid into another—and equally unpleasant—man, who swore as his beer sloshed down his muscle-ripped chest. Laughter followed, and he grabbed the kid, baring yellowed teeth.

"You just tripped over yer last crack!"

Wolverine stepped forward, his own teeth bared as he spoke the first and only human words that he could think of at the time.

"Damn you!" he snarled, echoing his cry from the woods—the only words he could ever remember saying.

"Why you—!"

The large bulk took a swing—Wolverine felt his fist brush the top of his head as he ducked. The crowd roared as he returned with a blow that knocked the man back into the crowd.

"Not here, idiots! The cage! The cage!"

Hands grabbed him and the man, pulling them apart, and hands grabbed the kid. Wolverine snarled and pulled out of their hands, a rising terror and rage building in his heart as his body remembered memories that his mind had forgotten.

A small hand touched his arm. "Not good idea trying to fight dem all, mon ami," the kid said, sounding a bit out of breath, but surprisingly calm despite the excitement. The tone of the voice pulled the beast from the edge and likely saved the lives of all the men in the bar.

Wolverine turned sharply to him nonetheless, jerking away from the unfamiliar touch with a growl. The kid's eyes widened at the near-berserker gleam in the man's eyes and he jerked back automatically, his scent alarmed. The alarm passed abnormally quickly, though, and an odd caution mixed with something else took its place in his scent. When he spoke, he sounded almost . . . intrigued?

"You from around here, homme petit?"

Wolverine hardly glanced at him, his head still ducked and his muscle-ripped form tense as he stared at the large man who was all but ignored as he climbed from where he had fallen, looking quite dazed.

"What your name?" The kid tilted his head, catching glimpse of the dogtags hanging from the loose neck of the too-large shirt. "You from da mil'tary?"

_Military?_

Wolverine shook his head like an animal flicking an ear at an annoying fly.

Military?

His name . . . .

Something hurt behind his eyes. He shut them, closing out the light, the noise, and the sharp, sudden pain in his head. He drew up a hand and pressed against his temples with a low groan.

"'M," he half-growled. " 'm . . . ."

_Wolverine?_

He ended in a soft growl, turning his face away and shutting his eyes again.

The kid titled his head up, his strangely dark eyes looking back at him.

"Dat some name," the kid said with a crooked grin. "Nice ta meet you. Da name's Remy. Remy LeBeau."

TBC . . .


	10. Wolverine Walked into a Bar

Chapter 10: Wolverine Walked into a Bar . . .

* * *

_Kid bought me a drink. Probably wasn't old enough to get it himself, but I guess they ain't so picky up in north Canada. Suited me fine. Settled me right down nicely. Well, I guess Beast would say that's an exaggeration or somethin'. All right, maybe not settled, but lookin' back I'd say it was still nothin' more than a miracle that it didn't turn out worse that it did. _

* * *

_Then:_

For the tenth time in as many minutes the whole bar seemed to erupt as another man went down in the fighting cage, and for the tenth time in as many minutes Wolverine leaped to his feet, sloshing his fourth beer over the counter as he lifted his fists and felt the prickling of a familiar pain deep within his wrists.

His teeth bared as he stared at the ended fight, a low growl growing in his chest as he felt the crowd pressing on him.

The animal wanted out!

He wanted to growl, slash, and generally leave this place behind for good. It seemed he might be a man, but what did it matter?

But the beer . . . this was good. And some deep-buried part of him almost . . . liked it here, in an odd, growly sort of way.

But it wasn't that part of him that was in control—or almost out-of-control, as it were.

"What—? What—goin' on?" he snarled to the kid, the words blurting out before he had time to really think about them.

"Cage fighting, mon ami," Remy said calmly, flipping some face cards from his pocket from one hand to the other and pulling down his hood a bit further. "Man who win get d'money."

Wolverine paused, remembering the money in his pocket, which had already shrunk so much. Apparently beer was expensive.

The crowd roared again—and the man in the cage raised his arms, howling like a beast as sweat flicked from his arms and hands.

"Damn," someone next to them muttered. "Not Nielson again. Every time he pulls through there just ain't no fun in the bettin'. Steady winners take out all t'fun."

Wolverine wrinkled his nose and his eyes went to the cage, much like a wolf surveying a stretch of land before standing and beginning the hunt. His eyes almost glowed as he recognized the man in the cage—the large man that had tried to kill the kid, and then him.

As if feeling his gaze, the big man turned, his lips curled in an ugly, victorious grin. His eyes met Wolverine's and his look turned ugly—only more so because of the large bruise growing off the side of his face—the bruise that was not from any of the cage fights.

"You think you're tough because of one lucky hit, bastard?" the man roared at him. "Come and be a man, runt! Show yer a man!"

The words stung at forgotten memories and forgotten pains, and a fury beyond the animal survival rose up as he put his cup down firmly and stood, his teeth bared in answer to the challenge.

But no claws. He hadn't seen any yet, and the last one carried out of the ring had been breathing.

_He was a trap._

He stepped forward, and absently caught sound of the kid learning over the counter.

"Put this all on homme petit," and it took a moment for him to be able to understand the kid through his strange-sounding voice. "No—not that one. Dah hairy one, over dere."

Wolverine shook himself, pushing through the tall men around him towards the ring.

"What's yer name?" a man stopped him before the cage.

Wolverine tensed, his mind hurting from the noise and chaos in his surroundings. The animal growled, and so did he, though softly.

"Come, on, bub. A name."

A name. A name? His name?

Just like the kid had asked . . .

"Wol-verine," he uttered roughly. The man had already turned away. "All right, folks. Tonight we got ourselves a new champion—the Wolverine! Will he be one to finally bring down the Demon King!"

The crowds roared, and the Wolverine stood and roared with them, his blood running hot—ready to kill the giant across from him once and for all.

"You sure you wanna try yer luck, runt? They're gonna be moppin' the floor with yer brains once I'm done with ya!"

Wolverine bore his teeth—but no. This was not to kill. This was to put the stupid one in his place—to hunt, and get food without killing by getting the useless paper the men were so stupid to trade for food and beer. His snarl took the hint of a grin.

The man struck.

He was slow. Slower than a mountain lion, slower than a wolf. Slower than deer, and the very last trace the Wolverine's uncertainty vanished to replaced only by confidence.

This man was weak. He was no hunter—no danger. The man was prey.

There was no need for his claws. He cleanly sidestepped the first wild, strength-driven thrust and caught the second swing with his own, suddenly sure hand. And immediately, he knew he'd done something like this before.

It was right. It was familiar, to fight—even without his claws.

He knew what to do.

He blocked the next powerful strike cleanly with his forearm, and it wasn't even a hesitation before his own fist drove home to connect with his jaw. There was an awful crack, a splurting of blood over his fist, and the man went down—out cold with the first hit.

Still alive. Wolverine could hear the man's heart beat as he stood tall, the predator in him snarling for him to end it, but he stifled it and roared with the maddened crowd. He didn't have to kill to be the victor.

* * *

_I don't remember how long I fought that night. I didn't always get away without them landing a hit. First time it happened I caught the guy on the cage and put my fist under his throat—was about a hair away from letting those claws do what they've always done best. Don't know what would have happened if I hadn't stopped myself, and don't really know why I did. Maybe being amidst man—even the most wild of the worst—started waking up what was almost forgotten to me _

_Course, I won. Might have been wild, back then, but I still had my instincts, and there wasn't anything holding me back, either. I just let them come, and let them fall. _

_It's funny that the first time I really felt like I fit in with mankind was in a cage, with them all wild on the other side. _

* * *

The man named Wolverine sat at the counter, holding but not drinking from another of his countless glasses of beer. It was some time after the fights, and he'd just been sitting there, drinking beer after beer. The man behind the counter smelled surprised for some reason, but he didn't ask any questions as long as he kept the money between them, so Wolverine didn't mind.

He had plenty money to spare. The man'd even offered a room, but for the amount of about four big beers. He must have been crazy.

Wolverine could sleep in the woods, but he doubted he could find a single bottle of beer no matter how hard he looked out there.

Not to mention the food . . .

He'd smelled it across the room, and asked the guy for a plate of whatever it was.

Steak and potatoes. And some green stuff—vegetables, though he didn't touch that, and when he ordered his second plate he'd skipped the greens altogether.

Green stuff grew everywhere in the wood. Why should he waste his money on it?

Money. He had been right—it was very valuable indeed.

Someone walked out of the shadows, and he didn't need to see his face to recognize his scent, even with the remaining clutter from the night's earlier crowd. It was the kid.

Most everyone had given him a good berth after his winnings in the cage, which suited Wolverine just fine. The kid, though, just came over and sat down.

Sure, he still smelled wary, but he must have been too young to recognize the danger, with the casual way he was acting.

He should be more careful.

The kid said something. It sounded like nonsense.

The Wolverine shook his head. He had become pretty good at understanding the men around him—it had been coming easier throughout the night. He must be tired if he was beginning to lose that.

He glanced over and growled softly at the kid.

The kid lifted his hands in what might seem an innocent gesture, but with his deep hood and dark-gloved hands it looked guilty, if anything.

"Jus' complimenting your fighting, mon ami. You quick on you feet out dere."

Wolverine just looked at him. The kid patted one of his coat pockets. "None thought little man like you come out ahead, but I saw. You move like you used to fighting. Had you pegged first step you took in dah door."

Wolverine sniffed at his beer. He wanted to drink more, but he was stuffed. He drank a little more anyway.

He stopped as two tall men and a woman walked in through the front door. Wolverine looked up, his eyes narrowed as he watched them.

The men may not have attacked him yet, but these ones smelled like trouble. They smelled dangerous.

Wait. He was a trap ready to spring.

And he could take them down without his claws, if he needed.

But no. They walked past him, and their gaze was on the kid.

They looked like hungry wolves narrowing down on a lone rabbit.

The kid turned, and though the scent of wariness increased there was little, if any, fear.

He really was an idiot.

"All right, LeBeau. You thought you got away then, but we found you again, oui? You come quiet, and maybe we'll let you live a little longer."

It wasn't his business. It didn't matter to him. He'd never stepped between a hunter and his prey before, not except when he was starving—dying for want of food.

The kid had tensed, and now held his cards in a steady hand.

"No," Wolverine growled, putting down his drink and turning to face them. He stood, not liking having to look up to them so much.

"Well, well, what's this? The little rat find a little badger to play with?" the woman looked down at him. She stank of flowers, only far too strong, and it made his nose itch again.

"Nah, dat's dere's Wolverine—toughest cage fighter nor't of da Canadian border. So if you think t' take both us, cher, come on ahead. Gambit's waiting." He cocked his head, flipping through the cards in his hands. "Or you three too scared t' take us?"

"You cocky little LeBeau basta—"

The kid _moved_—and moved fast. He ducked and struck low, swiping the legs out from under the woman and knocking her heavily against a table behind her.

The dim light flashed off a blade, and the kid flipped backwards. The blade sang through the air, and Wolverine lunged forward with a snarl.

But the guy dodged, striking him low and kicking him onto another table that cracked under his weight. The man followed through, bringing down a gleaming blade.

_SNIKT!_

The man's eyes widened and he twisted in the air, but still the nine-inch claws slashed against his ribs, spraying a fine mist of blood across Wolverine's knuckles as he rose after him, the scent of blood fueling the fight.

Wild now, he rushed at him, blocking two high kicks and catching the man's ankle and flipping him around, but the man recovered, spinning in the air and landing to face him, daggers at ready.

There was a thrill down Wolverine's spine and he grinned as he dove forward again.

_This _man knew how to fight.

He barely had time to feel that odd appreciation when the man jumped forward, catching Wolverine's falling blades and cutting in sharply towards his gut. He felt the knife slice through the fabric of his shirt as he spun back, twisting to cut the man from behind, but he flipped cleanly over his head and knocked his balance off with a blow to his kidneys.

Wolverine rolled, coming up in a crouch with his blades ready. The man paused, taking a moment to stare at the six long claws as he muttered an oath.

The kid was surprisingly holding his own. He'd pulled a sort of staff from somewhere, and now was backing up. There was a cut across his brow and he was breathing hard, but he wasn't backing down yet.

Damn fool kid had courage and at least a little bit of skill to back it up, if nothing else.

The man in front of him struck, and Wolverine dodged, swinging a fist in a heavy backhand that struck him into the wall and left deep, bloodied gashes across his face. He went down, limp, and the Wolverine paused to make sure he wouldn't rise again.

Suddenly, the scuffle across the room went still.

The Wolverine turned swiftly to see that the kid had finally lost—the woman had him in a headlock and a dagger against his throat, his staff frozen in his hands.

"Stand back!" the man said, leveling a finger at him. "One move and she cuts the kid's throat."

It wasn't a smart thing. If they killed the kid there would be nothing to stop him from killing them. But he still stopped, ready to wait until he saw a weakness. Satisfied, the woman looked down at the kid.

"All right, LeBeau. Drop it."

"I don' think I like to, petite."

The blade pressed harder, and the kid stiffened, but he still appeared calm, now that his hood had fallen back to show his face and his strangely dark eyes.

"This is the last time I ask nicely," the woman hissed.

"Always thought ladies like a man who stood his own," the kid replied, then winced as the blade pushed hard enough to break his skin. "All righ', cher. All righ'." He opened his hand and his staff fell to the ground with a dull thud, but at the same time his deck of cards slipped from his sleeve and scattered over the floor, and it seemed that they seemed to almost glow as a bit of smoke rose from them.

The kid swore. "Oops," he said, then jerked his head back, butting against the woman's nose.

Wolverine smelled blood, but as he made to move forward to take care of the man the kid darted forward and grabbed his arm.

The kid smelled alarmed at last, so Wolverine let him pull him away as he dove towards the cupboard and pulled him down sharply to the ground.

Suddenly, it felt like the world had ended.

It was like gunfire, but a thousand times louder. Instinctively the Wolverine pulled the kid under him as it burst his ears, seared his hair and face and skin, and blinded his eyes. Pain followed the heat, and the world crushed in around him as he hunched down, shut his eyes, and waited it to go away.

TBC . . .


	11. An Animal

Heh. So, yeah. I'm back, again. Sorry these chapters are taking so long. I've been doing some serious revamping of what I think may happen in this story, and I think it may possibly explode.

Hopefully in a good way.

I blame the fact that I am now a proud owner of the first version of Wolverine comics, more than a few of the second version, and the 40 years of the Uncanny X-Men CD. Needless to say I've been busy doing . . . ahem . . . "research."

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thanks so much for the reviews and your continued faith in my sporatic attempts at writing. You guys are great.

Hopefully in a good way.

* * *

Chapter 11: An Animal

* * *

_Then:_

He didn't fall unconscious. No. The pain kept him awake—kept him alive. He just froze there, the familiar rush of agony coursing over him—the heat, the pressure of something massive laying over him, and sharp stab of something that was digging deep dug into his back. The pain made him angry, made him want to _hurt_—kill those men who had attacked him. Red colored his eyes as he felt blood dripping down his face, running down his side, even as his skin itched as he healed—feeling like the time he had stepped onto a hill of angry red ants that had swarmed over him.

But the pain in his back didn't go away, and it only hurt more when he moved.

Something moved beneath him. Someone was struggling to breathe, in the darkness—someone besides himself and his pain-ragged breath that tasted like blood and smoke.

The kid.

He shook his head and he grit his teeth as painful lights burst before his eyes.

The kid stank of fear and some blood, and was pressed up tight against Wolverine's chest. He moved, pushing his back against Wolverine as he tried to move. The sharp thing dug deeper into the Wolverine's back and he groaned.

"Mon Dieu. You alive, Canuck?"

The kid was moving, and it _hurt._ Damn it, he needed to stay still.

He growled, but no—he needed to speak. To tell him to stop pushing—it only made it worse.

"Ss-top," he gritted out. The kid immediately stilled.

He had to get them out of there. He had to get the fire out of his back. He had to get out, because even as the pain from the blast was beginning to fade he could feel heat beyond the wreckage that lay over them.

He felt his hands, pressed against the floor on either side of the boy where he had fallen to try and cover them.

_SNIKT! _

Claws dug into the broken flooring, and he pushed upwards.

The sharp pain in his back grew nearly unbearable, and he snarled, as he pushed up, and up, and up, his muscles straining as blood ran down his back like dark rain.

He wasn't going to die in a hole like a frightened rabbit.

He managed to turn enough to turn his claws on the fallen debris that trapped them, ripping through a ceiling beam that had fallen over them and bruised his ribs. He pushed it aside with a snarl and finally shoved out into the hot, smoking air.

He grabbed the kid and boosted him out, then staggered up after him, his breath soft growls at the new dark, black-flaked burns and blood-crusted gashes he had received in his struggle, and at the continuing sharp pain from between his shoulders.

The room was a mess. There was no sign of those they had been fighting, nor of the barkeeper. The roof had collapsed in, one of the walls had been completely blown out, and the stench of smoke and smoldering fire almost covered up the scent of blood.

Damn. And all the beer bottles had been shattered.

He turned to the kid, wiping a dark line of blood from his forehead, from a wound that had already vanished and even the dull throb of remaining pain was quickly fading.

The kid stared at him—the hunched, blood-covered shadow that loomed over him. Wolverine's stolen clothes were shredded and damply stained but eyes were sharp and strangely calm despite his agony in the flickering of the flames growing under the mess of the bar.

Like a wolf rising out of a massacre—blood-covered, injured, but unfazed even as the stench of his own burning flesh seared his sensitive nostrils. His blades withdrew with a sharp _SNAKT,_ and blood dripped from his knuckles.

"Go."

The kid nodded wordlessly, taking his words as a sort of permission to dart as quickly as he could over the debris towards the blown-out wall, where he turned to look back. The Wolverine paused, hunching slightly as he waited—his face twisted in a pain-filled snarl as he waited for some of the blinding-white pain to pass, waited for his breathing to slow slightly, waited for himself to heal. It didn't happen fast enough for him. Lifting his head, he stepped forward, staggering slightly despite himself as he sniffed the air.

The three were dead. He could smell it, as he stepped forward slowly over the rubble. Probably crushed by the falling beams, or blasted by the force of the explosion.

Satisfied, Wolverine turned led the way, limping forward—ignoring the pain. The kid followed without a sound—well, more or less. The kid moved quietly, but still managed to bungle into a thorn brush. He was careless in the wood. Inexperienced.

Damn, his back hurt.

"Where we goin'?"

Away. Wasn't that obvious? Wasn't that enough? Rough breathing was the only reply to the question.

Wolverine knew when it was time to leave. After they had killed those men, not too long ago now, he had known it was time to leave. He'd traveled hard for a week before he felt safe enough to go near man again.

It was time for them to get away again.

Or him, at least.

He halted in the shadows, turning sharply to the kid, though his breathing caught at the sharp movement as a shot of fire shot up his back. He hissed, putting a hand on his lower back as he faced the kid, who had taken out another deck of cards as was filing through them nervously.

He glared at the cards, then at the kid. He should put them away. They were dangerous.

"Jus' cards, homme," the kid said, flipping through them and holding up an ace. "See?" He held it out to him.

Wolverine paused, then carefully reached forward took the card between two fingers warily. He sniffed at it, then handed it back, leaving a smudge of blood where his fingers had touched touched. It just smelled like paper and ink and the kid's greasy scent.

Giving the kid one final close look, he turned and started deeper into the woods.

"Whoa," Remy called, hurrying to try and catch up with him again. "Hold on. You can't leave Remy all alone. And you hurt. You need a doctor, petit, and . . . ."

Wolverine paused, glancing back at him. Again, the kid stopped in his tracks, looking taken aback by the feral look in his eye.

The short man closed his eyes and shook his head, but staggered slightly and caught a tree to keep from falling.

The sharp pain in his back dug deeper, and he groaned softly, reaching around to the excruciating pain in his back, but he couldn't reach it.

"What wrong, Monsieur Wolverine?"

He came too close, and Wolverine turned sharply and snarled at him.

"Mon dieu." Blood had completely caked his back, and a large jagged jutting of wood protruded from between his ribs.

Wolverine looked at him, panting. A red haze was fighting at the edge of his vision, but he fought it down. Words. He needed words. "C-can't—reach . . . d-damn thing."

The kid had finally gone pale, and stared at him with wide red-black eyes.

"Damn, Canuck. You dead. You need da priest, not da doctor."'

A soft growl answered that. "Pull."

"What? You need help. You bleed to death out here."

"Pull!" the Wolverine snarled. "Now!"

He turned, bracing himself against a tree and waiting.

He heard the kid step forward, heard the quickening of his heart beat and breath. The kid was as scared as he had been so far, even when he had had a knife pressed against his throat.

The kid hesitated, then reached up and took hold of the wedge. Wolverine growled softly, bowing his head. Blood dripped from the hair that hung in front of his face.

"Don't spear me for dis, homme petit," the kid whispered. "Gambit wasn't born t'be a shish kabob." He took a deep breathe, placing one hand against Wolverine's blood-slick shoulder gingerly to brace himself. "All righ'," he exhaled. "On three? One, two, three!" He jerked back, and the stake wrenched inside of him. It caught on his ribcage, then with a jerk the bloodied shaft broke free.

"GRRRAA—

—AAAAAAARRRRRRGGG!"

_SNIKT! _

Metal claws extended reflexively, cutting deep into the wood as he arched back.

He whirled, and the kid jumped back, an ace card balanced between his now-bloodied fingers as he dropped the bloodied stake onto the ground. A spike of fear itched Wolverine's nostrils.

_Damn it, kid! I didn't mean for you to try and kill me! _

The automatic words came from deep inside of him, but didn't get beyond his mind. He turned around sharply with a snarl, gritting his teeth as he waited for the pain to go away. It always did.

He hunched there, leaning against the tree until the fresh taste of blood left his mouth, turning dry and bitter. Damn, he hated the taste of fresh blood. His, at least.

He straightened slowly, his breathing still hoarse. The pain wasn't all gone—this was as bad as getting shot, he figured—but it was bearable.

It would go away.

The kid was still standing there, a bit scuffed and singed himself. He was wary, and looked torn between bolting and attacking as he watched the skin pull itself together in the darkness.

Wolverine withdrew his claws, baring his teeth at the renewed pain.

He just wanted another beer.

"Damn," Wolverine growled a word that he was becoming most comfortable with. He twisted his neck, popping it loudly.

He glanced at the kid, who was still pale and tense as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

_Calm down, kid. I ain't gonna hurt you _

The kid was terrified, and Wolverine didn't want to fight. Sure, he could beat the kid—kill him easy, even with him still healing, and with him and his strange exploding paper. But he didn't want to. Not if he didn't have to.

The kid needed help. And he could help, couldn't he?

"'S okay," he spoke for the voice in his head in a low growl. He held out his hands, open and palm-up, trying to show he didn't want to fight. The kid took a step back, though, not looking comforted in the slightest. Wolverine hunched slightly, making himself look smaller, and took a sideways step forward. "Ssss—okay."

"Maybe yes or no, homme. I see you claws, and that cut go 'way too fast for normal. You a freak man too. More freak than ol' Gambit here, I tink."

_A freak._

He didn't like the sound of that, and gave manifest of that in a low growl.

"Wha—what?"

"Dah cards," he said, pulling out his whole deck. Wolverine took a cautious step backwards, clenching his fists again, and a crooked grin twisted the kid's lips. "See? Anything Gambit touch he can blast as big as he want. That what happened in dah place back dere—jus' little too much that time, yes?"

Wolverine stared at him, then shook his head. He didn't understand. His head was still ringing from the blast, and he felt tired from loss of blood. But it didn't matter anyway. He brushed his arm over his face, smearing the soot and blood there.

He didn't like the smell. It reminded him of something—that charred smell of burnt flesh . . .

He shook his head, confused for a moment. But then, it didn't matter, did it?

He needed to leave. They would come looking for him—hunting. Probably after the kid too.

And if they caught him. If they caught them . . .

He shivered.

Pain was nothing. But something . . . there was something there. If they caught him it would be so much worse than pain. So much worse than having his guts spilled all over the snow like a wolf's. So much worse than even being eaten.

_You a freak man too. _

He couldn't just leave the kid out here all alone—dangerous or no. He was clearly far too inexperienced. He'd probably get eaten by nothing bigger than a bobcat, if he didn't just fall over and die from starvation after a couple days.

He took a deep breath at a last sharp jolt of pain, and let it out slowly as it went away. He crouched down, standing on the balls of his feet and resting his forearms on his knees as he looked up at the kid, who was now shivering.

Was he cold? The sun had set, and the drying blood was chilling on his skin, but it wasn't cold. Not really. Not like the white times. No, it wasn't cold at all.

The kid was too young to be on his own.

Wolverine straightened slowly, arching his back and shaking himself. He scratched the back of his neck, frowning at the kid.

"C'mon."

There was a pause, and Wolverine knew the kid was deciding whether to follow or stay. He didn't know where he would go if he chose not to follow. Probably would end up getting lost, or what Wolverine knew was worse—found by the people who had come after the kid. Or after them? Maybe they were all just after them—their kind? The freaks?

He shifted on his feet, glancing at the way they had come, then back at the feral man half-crouched, half-standing before him. And a half a second before he moved, Wolverine knew what his choice had been.

The kid took a step towards him.

Wolverine nodded, feeling—what? Satisfied?

Why? He didn't care. The kid could've left, and he wouldn't have cared one bit.

_Then why'd you help him out in the first place? _

He didn't know. It was stupid—not his business, like trying to save a doe from a pack of wolves. What did he gain from it? Just hurt, with no food or warmth to speak of.

Besides, he was the Wolverine. Somehow he just knew that he was supposed to be alone.

But why did that feel . . . not good—but bad? Sad. Like cold rain after the snow, when his stomach was empty and the prey was scarce, and he would sit under the tree, his fingers and toes red with cold and nothing but the dirt to fill his senses as the freezing drops dangled from his hair in front of his eyes.

But that was life. Sometimes there was food, warmth. Sometimes there wasn't. Why did it matter?

The animal knew the answer: it didn't.

It shouldn't.

Wolverine glanced back as the kid nearly twisted his ankle in a hole in the earth and snorted softly.

But the wolves ran together. The wolves had their packs, their clumsy pups that made easy pickings as they romped through the wood, if not for their watchful packmates.

Was this kid a packmate? Could he be?

Wolverine ducked his head and strode forward more quickly, keeping an ear forward and an ear back for trouble.

"We go to your place?" Gambit asked from behind him in the darkness. Wolverine glanced back at him.

Maybe these . . . _freaks_. . .—Him. The kid. _Two _of them—Maybe they needed to stick together.

_Sure, kid. Sure._

* * *

Logan yawned widely, and ended with an almost doglike shake of his head. He rubbed his eyes and glanced down at his wristwatch, but no numbers blinked back up at him from the scrambled mess of the shattered face. Damn. He must've broken it during that last fight with that fat guy—didn't Storm call him Bubble, or something? No, that wasn't it.

Oh yeah. Blob. Nice name. It fit him—the ugly son-of-a-bitch.

He tore the watch off his wrist and chucked it towards a small garbage can someone had put near the door for him—probably as a not-so-subtle hint. It rebounded off the wall and would have landed in the trash if it weren't for the fact that it was already heaped and overflowing with everything from cigar butts and beer cans to the latest shredded t-shirt and jeans he'd chucked over there after the run in with Marshmellow-boy and his circus of clowns.

Logan sat up slowly, checking the glowing numbers of the bedside alarm clock settled on his dresser a good safe meter away from the bed. It was 2:30 in the morning.

Good. Still early.

He rolled off the bed, absently feeling his pocket for a cigar as he glanced back to his bed. He paused to fix the covers from where Kylee and kicked them off—it was getting colder, now that winter was beginning to set in—not that it was cold to him, but the kid had been sniffing a bit too much, even for her, the day before. Not everyone around here had a healing factor, as Rogue had reminded him more times than he could count during that week the flu had swept around the mansion just a month past.

He'd finally just offered to let her touch him, just for a second. She'd glared at him like he'd gut-punched her and hadn't talked to him for at least two days.

He didn't get women—even women-kids like Rogue.

He grabbed his jacket from the chair and slipped it on, but didn't bother with shoes as he slipped out the door, padding along the moonlit hall silently despite his unusual mass.

There was a hell of a lot of history with the X-Men, he realized. A lot of it that he hadn't really realized, before most of it had gone to hell. Storm'd talked about ol' Blobbo like she'd known him as a bloated roll of a baby. She'd talked about it on the way back to the mansion—when she and Hank, Jean, and the Boy-Scout had gone out and taken him on for the first time.

He'd always known that Ororo missed Chuck and One-Eye and (of course) Jeannie, but he hadn't realized that she'd come to think of them as . . . well, family.

Wolverine scratched his chin, frowning.

But they were gone. And now what? He hadn't exactly known what to do when he found out that when he launched himself at the giant-sized volleyball, intending to put him down for good, the guy's gut had just curved around his claws like rotting bread-dough left out too long.

He'd then gotten a knock aside the head for his trouble, and by the time he stopped seeing stars and pulled himself out of brick wall he'd crashed through, the Dumb'n'Dumber was gone.

If Rogue'd been there, she could've absorbed him a bit—though Logan hated the idea of her having even a bit of the Brainless Dough-boy in her mind. Iceman would've been better, but both of them'd been out. Trying to patch things up (again), and Logan wondered how long it would take for them to break up (again).

He trimmed the tip of his cigar with his claw, before pulling his lighter from his jacket and lighting up.

Sometimes people had to make their own mistakes.

Did the Blob have a weak spot? Storm would have been affective with her lightning bolt, but she still held firm to Chuck's old creed—enough to drop the big guy probably would have been enough to drop him for good, and 'Ro didn't like that.

Puffing away with a scowl on his face, he turned away from the window he'd unconsciously stopped before and turned towards the stairs. . . . then stopped.

The smoke from his cigar blocked out most of the noisy scents of the students and whatever-the-hell they got into, but over that he caught the faint whiff of something . . . almost transparent, if such a thing were possible.

He frowned at the solid wall beside him, his nostrils flaring at the scent. His eyes narrowed.

_Yeah._

"Can I help you with somethin', darlin', or are you running solo tonight?"

He waited. Seconds passed, and he wondered if she'd reappear at all. Finally, there was an odd shade in the wooden panel, and Kitty phased through the wall. Logan stepped back, allowing her room to become solid. She smelled a bit down, besides the fact that Kitty of all people was not one to be wandering at this time of night.

She was one of the more responsible ones—too responsible, but not such a prick like a good many he could name from around here. She was young—not much older than Jubilee, but with a good head on her shoulders. Still, if _he_ could walk through walls, he knew he wouldn't be sticking around the mansion like Pryde did.

"Somethin' bothering you, Punkin'?" He leaned back against the wall behind him.

Kitty rubbed her eyes, not meeting his gaze. "I . . . I don't know."

Logan didn't say anything, but just waited, the top half of his face hiding in shadows and the smoke of his cigar drifting lazily upwards in the moonlight.

Kitty paused, then slowly lowered herself onto the seat beneath the window. She looked out across the ground, her breath leaving a slight mist on the chilled glass. She looked down at her hands on her lap.

"I . . . I don't know if I can do this, Logan."

Logan waited for more, but the silence stretched. The kid had more to say, but didn't know how to say it.

"This is about the mission, ain't it?"

It wasn't really a question. Kitty'd been quiet since their last mission, when they'd arrived to save a mutant who'd just manifested his powers and accidentally almost burned his apartment complex to the ground. In the end no one was seriously hurt (besides Logan, but he shrugged it off. It didn't matter anyway, and the kid he'd sniffed out hiding in the smoldering closet was safe). Still, once everyone was out and Storm was doing her best to quell the raging inferno, things had got out of hand.

Logan took a deep breath of smoke, remembering.

* * *

Logan put the boy down, who took one last terrified look at him and darted away. Logan stood slowly, uncurling from the bowed position he'd taken as he jumped out the two-story window to protect the kid from the glass and flames. He skin cracked on his back, burnt yet damp with blood and puss out from the burns and gashes from the glass, and frowned down at the tatters of his jacket, and the charred wife beater underneath.

Damn. Was this the third leather suit in a month? What the hell was up with these uniforms, anyway? One-Eye was gone along with his anal insistence on black leather, and it was a hell of a lot cheaper to replace jeans and a t-shirt than a full leather suit, professionalism be damned.

"Wolvie?" Kitty asked, staring at him. By the look on her face, he must've looked pretty bad, but he shot her a wolfish grin, that probably looked close to feral in his current state.

"Good goin' back there, punkin'," he said. He voice was dry and rough. He cleared his throat and turned to spit out a mouthful of blood and thick saliva, and wiped his arm across his mouth. "You did good." The young, maybe 12-year-old mutant kid at her side made this mission a success, no matter the collateral damage. His parents stood close by, hovering and nervous just in front of the crowd.

* * *

_The crowd was restless. Not unusual, considering most their homes and everything inside just got scorched to nothing. They were lucky no one was killed. But then, I guess most people ain't that willin' to just accept the lucky and forget tryin' to pin the blame. Just against human nature, I guess. _

_So they started shouting, the whole lot. Callin' us freaks, blamin' us for everything from the fire to the rising price of celery at the local grocer, tellin' us to go back to hell, that we were all filthy animals deserving to be put down, blah, blah, blah. But then it turns out some smartass in pajamas had decided his gun was among his greatest valuables, so he grabbed it on his way out of his over-priced apartment.. I saw it out of the corner of my eye—aimin' at Kitty, or maybe the kid. Maybe hopin' to get both at once. Hardly had a chance to react, but at least it was enough. _

* * *

"PRYDE! PHASE!"

His shout came simultaneous to the gunshot. Kitty grabbed the kid and flickered slightly, and Logan dove forward, pushing Bobby out of the way behind them.

Three consecutive bullets hit him full in the chest, knocking him backwards as one chipped against a metal-sheathed rib and exploded into his still smoke-healing lungs. He hit the ground hard, his own blood immediately flooding his mouth and making him choke. He rose up nonetheless, bent almost feral as he put a hand to his leaking chest.

_SNIKT! _

" _Logan!_" Kitty's voice was terrified. What—hadn't she ever seen him bite the bullet before?

Well, actually . . . probably not.

Dammit—that hurt. It'd been a good year since he'd taken a bullet to the gut like that. He must be getting soft.

He didn't say anything—didn't have the words to spare, with his lungs cut up like next week's Thanksgiving turkey. He just stepped forward, shredding the man's gun and giving him a blow to his jaw to send him into next month, barely remembering at the last minute to retract his claws. The man went down like a bag of potatoes.

Logan straightened slowly, one hand still over his chest. He could feel the bullets working their way out, and it wasn't a feeling that he'd categorize as "nice."

* * *

_And that was it. I healed up, we got the kid out with his parents, blah, blah, blah. All the details are part of Storm's job. _

_But Kitty's been quiet ever since. Dunno if it was the bullet or what that freaked her out, but she looked just about ready to sick up right after that. They're just kids, after all. _

* * *

Logan looked at Kitty, and waited.

"I . . . that man . . . the one that shot you . . . ."

"What about him?"

"That was his son you saved. I . . . I heard him talking, when you were in the building, and when you came out . . . and he shot you."

Logan let out a long breath of smoke. He'd seen too much—lived too much, he supposed—to really be surprised. He grunted.

"What of it?"

Kitty stared at him. "You _saved_ his son. We saved probably that whole city block and everyone on it, and he s-shot you. And if you hadn't warned me . . . . I mean, I'm just a _kid_, and he was trying to _kill_ me. Just because I'm a mutant, and he's not."

"So he's an ungrateful bastard," Logan shrugged. Kitty's eyes dropped. Wolverine swore mentally.

Damn. Why did they come to him, like he was supposed to tell him what was up and down, black and white? Hell, the kids probably couldn't find a _less_ helpful councelor if they wanted to.

He didn't know how to deal with these kids.

He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a breath. "Look, kid. If you want someone to cheer you up and tell you the world's all sunshine n' daisies, you're talkin' to the wrong guy. The fact is most've the world's opinion of mutants right now is about on par with rats and rabid dogs." The kid still didn't meet his eyes, so Logan spoke again. "You're . . . what? Sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Almost fifteen."

Oh. Even younger than he thought. Damn—she was too young for all of this. All the kids were.

"Fifteen, then. Kid, you go out and face things that'd make Mr. Trigger-Happy mess his pants and run cryin' like a baby. You're one of the best out there, too—you got good instinct, and a good head, and you're not one to run from a fight. But if you need to take a break from the field for a couple years, I don't think anyone would think any less of ya. You should be worrying about . . . school, boys . . . . " Even seventeen would be too young for a kid like her to have to face the underbelly of the world.

She looked down. "My . . . my grandpa's parents were in Poland during World War II, Logan. All his brothers, sisters, cousins . . . they all died. Just because they were different. If I can do something . . . I can't let it come to that."

And that was why he liked this kid.

"Then what's the problem?" She didn't answer, but glanced up at him. "Spit it out, kid. I can smell you've got something to say."

Kitty looked up. "What if next time the person who gets shot doesn't heal, Logan?" she asked softly.

Damn. It had to be that.

Logan took the cigar from his mouth. "I dunno." They were just kids. Kids acting as soldiers. Working with One-Eye, Storm, Beast, the Elf . . . hell, even . . . even Jeannie . . . that was different. They knew what they were facing, and if something happened . . . when something happened, well, it happened. "I guess we just gotta hope that doesn't happen."

But it did happen. It'd happened to the professor, Jean, Cyke . . . The kids had felt safe, protected by them, but if they could die just like that . . . what was stopping them from being offed just as easily?

It was always the survivors that suffered the most, wasn't it? He knew it in his bones—somewhere deep, somewhere that wouldn't let him forget.

He'd killed Jeannie. It wasn't openly spoken of, but that didn't mean it wasn't known. He knew some of the kids wondered if he would kill them, if they lost control too.

He didn't want to think about that, because deep down he knew the answer: he'd do what needed to be done.

Damn him a hundred times over.

Was that why Xavier'd kept him around at all? To put down the ones that he couldn't control?

Did he already know about the Phoenix? Had he planned that whole thing to happen from the beginning?

For all his talk of a better world—that Logan was a man, and could be a _good_ man at that—

Had Xavier just been using him too?

_Probably_.

Frankly, he'd always thought Xavier's excuses for having him around were weak at best.

God, he hated himself.

"I ain't gonna tell you the right way, 'cause the world ain't like that. Charlie had a dream, and I aim to try and keep it. You go home if you want, go to college, find a cure for cancer or aids and save millions of lives more. We each fight in our own way, Punkin'." He stood. "You think on it. Now go get some sleep."

Kitty stood as well. "Thanks, Logan."

Logan grunted, turning his back to her and heading down the stairs. He heard Kitty stand and move towards her room. "Good luck, kid."

TBC . . . .

Please review! Thanks!


	12. Wild

Disclaimer: Sadly, still not mine.

Hey, all! I hope you keep enjoying this! Please remember to review!

* * *

Chapter 12: Wild

* * *

_If I'd been alone I probably would've traveled all night. As it was, we only went a couple hours before Cajun was making enough noise to wake the dead, and looked about ready to fall over dead himself from exhaustion. So we settled down—the kid looked at me like I was crazy when I stopped in the middle of the forest and said we could sleep there. Wouldn't stop grumbling about how he might not have had a prince's life so far, but he'd never had to sleep like a badger before. He shut up real quick when I growled at him, though. _

_I guess I was tired enough from healin' and all that I went righ' to sleep, no matter that I didn't like sleepin' around a man—even a helpless whelp like that one. Kid—that's right, called himself Gambit. Don't really remember the other name. Something girlish, though. French-like. Anyway—figure he must've been a mutant, now that I look back. Anyway, kid wouldn't take his eyes off me, though, and was still awake when I turned to sleep. When I woke up just a little later—and the kid was still sitting back against a tree, his head slumped 'gainst his chest and he was out—too tired to keep his vigil the whole night, no matter how scared he was of me. _

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine jerked awake, his heart thumping like gunfire. He leaped to his feet, his nostrils flaring as his eyes darted through the darkness of the night. A sound caught his ear and he turned around sharply, claws shooting from his fists.

It was the kid, sound asleep and shivering enough that the chattering of his teeth was audible.

Wolverine retracted his claws and rubbed his face, feeling the odd stretch of dried blood on his skin.

He hated sleep. He hated the men in his dreams.

He shook his head and stretched, glad to feel that the soreness and pain had all faded away during his short nap. He shook himself like a large dog, itching at dried blood on his bare skin beneath the tattered shirt he wore.

The night air was cold against his sweat-slicked skin, but he pulled off the shirt and was about to chuck it aside, but stopped. He glanced at Gambit, then walked over and put the thick camper's shirt over him.

He was just a kid, after all.

The wolverine paused, standing from his crouch and sniffing the air, his eyes turned up towards the stars.

The kid'd have to get used to the cold though. The air was heavy and wetter than usual. There was a cold front coming on.

They'd head south, then. It was warmer there, even if there were more men. They'd find a good forest in the low grounds with good hunting, where there weren't any men.

Scratching the back of his neck again, Wolverine lay back down on the chilled earth again and stared at the kid, his eyes glinting in the darkness.

Sleep was far, far away from his mind. But as far as Wolverine was concerned, that was all right with him.

* * *

_Now:_

Logan crossed the lawn, puffing on his cigar as he headed towards the sort of small forest that bordered the trimmed and cultured field around Xavier's school.

He stepped beneath the shadows of the trees, slowing his step. He dropped the cigar and ground it under his heel, not needing the taste of the smoke to block out the overly-loud scents of people. Sometimes he wondered how they walked around so oblivious to the stink they stirred up.

He paused briefly, putting his hands in his jacket pockets as he parsed the scents of the cool night.

His nose twitched with the smells of the wood as he continued forward—deer, rabbit, mouse and birds. A shift in the air brought the scent of a cat who'd prowled past about an hour earlier, and the remains of a mouse who hadn't noticed the hunter until it was too late.

He could let his senses free out here without such a risk of backfire that could leave him reeling. The human world was too loud, bright, and reeking. Too complicated.

He needed to get away again. It'd been a couple months now, but things were too busy, what with only him, Kurt, and Storm, and Heidi the four-armed cook manning the students.

They needed more staff.

Logan paused, catching a fresher scent and turning. He ducked down, drawing his hands from his pockets and ducking down, his step silent despite its weight.

Time to hunt.

His movement was liquid in the shadows—slipping silently forward, with an almost lazy pace that was neither fast nor slow—like a predator following an injured prey, confident of success.

There was no hurry in the hunt—to limit to time, no deadline. There was a freedom in the hunt that most men just couldn't understand.

It was so easy to forget, when it was like this. To just let his mind loose, to set it free. To let his senses overwhelm logical thought—to let the shift of a leaf, or the placement of an imprint on the earth fill his mind. He was no danger to anyone, out here, and there was no past, no future, no present to worry about. There was just the hunt, and the joy of it.

Freedom.

The animal in him rejoiced, urging him to step quicker, to move faster—to run with abandon, and keep running—forgetting everything but the beauty of this shadow-darkened world—the beauty of this moon-bathed wilderness—the glory of the wild heart that beat against his metal ribcage. He wanted to howl, but it would frighten the prey. Yet he howled in his heart.

The woods were his domain.

He didn't have to see the deer to know he was drawing close—the scent was growing stronger. He heard it second—the slight shift of the first falling leaves as its dainty step crossed through the moon-streamed air. He saw it last—a doe, its head bobbing with its graceful, unhurried steps. There was more beauty in that one creature than anything man had ever made. Logan slowed his steps, crouching down and slipping slowly forward, silent as shadows. The deer ducked its head to nibble on some lichen, and Logan stilled, reaching out his hand to touch its silky coat—

. . . just to touch it . . . to try and catch that moment of wild glory. To brush against that ultimate freedom.

The deer's head shot up, its ears alert. It caught sight of him, one hand outstretched towards it, and bounded away in alarm, vanishing into the night.

Logan didn't move for a second, still crouched in the shadows. Finally, slowly, he let out a breath of air, pulling the animal back down, letting the man take control again. He scowled over his shoulder, growling softly.

"You really had to scare it off, didn't ya?"

There was a shift in the breeze—a change of pressure in the air that made the animal in him wary, and Ororo drifted down from above the trees. Her feet touched lightly on the ground, as graceful as the doe that had vanished like a dream.

"Do I want to know what you are doing running around like a savage at this time in the morning?"

"No," Logan snapped, unsurprised by her appearance. He'd smelled her some time back, and wondered if she'd let him be or not.

Apparently not.

"There's food in the kitchen, Wolverine, if you're hungry."

"That's my business," Logan replied, stung and covering it with anger. "Gotta problem with that?" He turned away from her, his eyes glowing like a wolf's as he gazed after the deer. The animal stirred inside him, longing to hunt. He pushed it down, glancing back at her, noticing for the first time that she was and dressed in a loose tank top and shorts. Fit her a damned lot better than her usual respectable stuff she wore, too. Could've given the Boy Scout a run for his money, sometimes. He realized she was barefoot too. "What're _you_ doin' out here, anyway?"

Storm laughed softly, not meeting his eyes. "Just walking."

"It's a bit late for a walk. You got somethin' you ain't owning up to?"

She hugged herself, looking up at the stars. She looked oddly natural out here, Logan realized. She always seemed too uptight in the school—tense. He'd come to connect the scent of frustration and agitation with her natural scent. Out here she smelled . . . relaxed. At ease. Belonging.

Storm didn't answer at first, just standing there, her face turned upwards. "Do you know what I was, before I joined the X-Men?" Storm asked, almost absently, her hair almost glowing with the white of the stars.

Logan sat down, pulling off a boot and dumping out a couple rocks that had wedged themselves inside. "Do you know how long I've been tracking that deer?" he returned.

Storm looked at him, her eyes narrowing. "Why must you do that?"

"What?"

"You know what, Wolverine."

Logan fished into his pocket for another cigar. "Guess it's part of my lovin' nature, darlin'."

Ororo let out a long, breath, the frustration back in her scent. Good. Maybe she'd leave him alone now.

But then the frustration tapered off, dissipating into the night air. She sat down as well, a fair few feet away from him—not exactly endangering his personal space, but getting close to it.

"I didn't mean to frighten the deer, Logan."

He snorted. "Right."

"Contrary to your beliefs, Logan, I think I may understand you better than you think."

A soft chuckle answered that. "Keep tellin' yerself that." Even if she was more at home in the woods . . . that didn't mean anything. Storm was a class apart from him. She could never really understand. No one could, but especially a high-class broad like her.

Storm sighed, leaning back so her hair brushed her shoulders as she looked up to the stars. "I lived most my life in Egypt, before I came here. I knew little of wars, technology . . . the hate of bigots. My village . . . they thought I was a goddess," she continued softly.

Logan wanted to give another uncaring retort to that, but he held it back this time, putting a fresh cigar in his mouth instead and saying nothing.

_A goddess. Yeah. That's just about right_.

"I was free. No responsibilities, except for my people. I brought them rain to water the desert earth. All was so simple, then. I would fly on the wind, bathe in the rain . . . there was no fear of needless death or harm. Life was . . . is . . . precious. That's a part of me, and I can't let that go." She glanced at him. "But there's that freedom, Wolverine, that always calling. Just to let loose—to let go. But I . . . I don't know what would happen if I did."

Logan glanced at her. He'd figured more than once that Storm was closely connected to the Earth—to the land, the air, the water. He'd seen the wind grow furious with the rise of her anger, or seen the rain when she'd been off on her own.

She _did_ belong here, in the wild. _With _the wild. Perhaps even more than him.

What was more uncontrollable than the beast that constantly rose up inside of him, fighting for control?

After all, what was more uncontrollable, more wild, more terrifying and glorious in its ferocity and beauty than lightning, rain, wind, cold?

And she controlled it all.

Maybe she was right. Maybe, somehow, they were more alike than he had realized. Perhaps that controlled cover she upheld was nothing more than a strong façade, covering the wild ecstasy underneath.

Something in her eyes told him that she could understand that.

But she couldn't understand the rest—the rage, the fury, the bloodlust . . . the beast inside.

"I am sorry for bothering you," Storm said, standing slowly, gracefully. She hesitated, looking at him, sitting in the shadows. His eyes reflected oddly—like an animal in the night, and she wondered if he knew.

She doubted that he would like to hear that.

"I wasn't going to kill her, 'Ro," Logan said softly.

Storm stopped, a shock of emotions darting across her face. Logan felt his own heart give a jerk, immediately drawing up a darkness in his mind.

_No, I wasn't talking about Jeannie_, he thought, even as Storm seemed to realize it herself. She looked away.

"I know, Logan," she said. "I know. I'm sorry I interrupted."

Logan _snikt _out a single claw, plunging it straight down into the earth until the dirt came up to his knuckle. Just like he'd done to Jean. Just like he'd tried to do to himself, so many times, before, and as he'd wanted to do again and again since. The earth didn't bleed, but he could almost feel the blood anyway. He retracted it, pulling his boot back on and standing.

"Are you . . . coming back to the mansion?"

"No," Logan said gruffly around his cigar. He wanted to be alone, dammit. Alone, where he couldn't hurt anyone. Alone, where there was no one to stare at him, where there were no watching eyes that never let him be.

That was how he'd always been. That was how it was meant to be.

But Ororo was still waiting.

"I . . . the reason I followed you tonight, Logan, is to thank you."

"What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"I just wanted to thank you for being there for the children. I know we have our differences, but your presence here has helped . . . more than I can say."

Logan resisted the surge of self-disgust and loathing. What? He didn't deserve _thanks_, of all things.

"After what I did, there's nothin' else I could do," he muttered.

"The children appreciate it, as well."

Logan snorted. "Those that aren't damned well terrified of me, that is. And for good reason."

Storm looked at him. "There is so much we _all_ wish that we could change," she said. "Logan, Jean—"

"Don't say it."

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"And I don't give a damn, either," Logan said, readying to go. He felt sick. He didn't want to talk about this. How could he talk about this? He'd _killed_ Jean. Murdered her, no matter the reasons. Slipped his claws between her ribs—one had glanced off bone, before tearing right through to the heart. He'd felt it all—felt the life's blood slowing—smelled her pouring out onto his hands, all over him. _Felt _her heartbeat die.

Felt _her_ die.

_God, why? _

God had nothing to do with it, that was what. That's what he'd said to Kurt, right after he'd come back to the mansion. The Elf'd tried to talk to him about it—sayin' that it wasn't his fault, that he did what he had to do, that God would give him the forgiveness he lacked for himself, blah, blah, blah. It had all just served made Logan angry.

If there was a God, how could he allow this to happen? How could he allow any of this to happen?

If there was a God, Logan would have died long ago—either struck down by justice, or mercy.

Or was it something else? Did both Heaven and Hell hate him so much that it just kept spitting him back out?

Was this life his purgatory?

If it was, he had a hell of a way to go. As it was, he was just falling further down.

He couldn't think about his—not here, not now. Maybe somewhere far, far away, where he could howl and rage and lose himself . . . and he would, if it weren't for the fact that he was afraid that once he let go he'd never find himself again.

But would that be so terrible?

"Wolverine," Storm said sharply, and he looked back at her. "You let the children talk to you. Why do you not let us?"

"The kids ain't tryin' to psychoanalyze every damn word I say."

"And Kurt?"

"The Elf's learned better than preach at me," Logan replied. "And he holds his beer a good deal better than anyone else around here. For the kids . . . they ain't tryin' to get me to talk, either. They just need someone to listen. Damn me if I know why they come to me."

"What if _I _need someone to listen?"

Logan staring at her with a frown.

"What are you talkin' about?"

"I left everything to come to the Xavier's. All I have left is here . . . but everything has changed. Jean was like a sister to me. Charles—the father I never knew, and Scott and Hank were my brothers. Now they're all gone—dead, except Hank. Now there's just you, and it appears that your rebellious nature to fight against authority has turned from Scott . . . to me."

Why was she talking? Didn't she realize how much better she could do than him? Didn't she see that he was nothing—less than nothing?

Why didn't she just go away—leave him alone? Why couldn't she see there was nothing she needed to know, nothing here to _like_?

If she really knew him, she'd never have let him stay all this while.

And most startling of all—why did he smell that scent on her—the scent of rising attraction? It made him sick. Not that he wasn't attracted to her—she was a broad, after all, and some of the things she wore—leather suit included—left very little to the imagination. He'd jump her in a heartbeat and move on without an inch of regret. The animal wanted to do it now—to take her here, to claim her his. To tell her whatever she needed to hear, just so she would take him, and if that didn't work, to take her anyway.

Didn't that, out of everything, prove what an animal he was? All she wanted was someone to listen—someone so she wasn't alone. She'd come to him for a small favor that people gave to each other—to care, just as a friend. And all he could think about was how beautiful the moon on her skin looked, and how her lips were parted—just ready to be pressed against his.

He'd felt it before. He couldn't count the broads he'd been with—didn't even remember their names or faces. Just used them, and moved on. Sure, they'd used him too—but that didn't make what he did any better.

Storm was better than that. She was in a different world. She—a goddess. Him—an animal. Why couldn't she understand that it wasn't safe for her to get close to him, in any way at all?

He disgusted himself.

Logan took his cigar from his mouth, tapping the ash off the end. "Stop," he said coldly. "I ain't listenin'. Go and find someone else's shoulder to cry on. There's a world full of people who're better for the job." He turned, leaving for good this time.

"But no one else here." Storm's eyes narrowed. "I'm going to say this, Logan, though I know you won't like to hear it. But for all of our disagreements, I admire you—as a teammate, and even as a friend. And I want you to know that a good many people at that school look up to you—as an example, as a strength, even as a father. So even if you insist on continuing on tearing yourself down, and pushing people away, there are still people who think the world of you out there. But until _you_ realize that you are more than an animal, then no matter what you do, for yourself you will always be exactly what they made you to be."

She was blind. They all were, and all had been. Xavier had told him he was no animal—Jeannie had treated him like a man—Storm even went so far to try and convince him he was a decent sort of man.

They were all too good for him. All he was doing was using them—using them to try and hope some of that goodness would wear off on him.

It would never happen—it was a path doomed to certain failure—but at least he'd try.

He had to.

He kept walking, leaving the weather-goddess behind, and ignoring the sharp pain in his chest.

It would go away. It always did.

Logan didn't make any sound as he disappeared beyond Ororo's vision, and she stood there for a minute, drawing her arms around herself. At last she sighed, then took to the skies, leaving him and the rest of the world behind.

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine woke up early, still tired, but that was normal. The dreams never let him sleep long anyway, and it was better to be tired than have to face them.

The sky had turned grey over the night—the clouds drifted low, so close that they almost seemed to sit right above the trees. The air had a bite to it—the slight breeze came in from the north. The air smelled green-blue—like long rain that could easily turn to snow.

He didn't like it—if the cold times came back again, he wasn't sure how he'd get enough food for the kid—but it happened. He'd survive. He always did.

What was that far-off voice in his mind, telling him that that wasn't always good? That always surviving was a dark thing—something to endure, like cold snow during a cloudless night so bitter it stole the breath from his lungs. It hurt, but there was nothing he could do about it.

He shook himself, again scratching at the remaining blood on his back. Even if the rain was cold, it would be good to wash that off.

Whatever that darkness had been—it was gone now. It didn't matter. He needed to hunt—to get them both food, and travel south and maybe look for a cave. It'd be good—warmer, if the cold time was already coming back.

The kid was still asleep. He'd fallen over during the night, and now was lying half-curled on the ground, the flannel shirt tucked around his hands and next to his chin. His mouth hung open slightly.

Wolverine went over slowly. He paused, crouching so as to appear less threatening, and then reached out and pushed the kid's shoulder.

The kid's brow furrowed. He muttered something incomprehensible, rolling onto his back, but then went still again.

Wolverine frowned. Were all kids this inept? A predator could have killed him a hundred times over before he even stirred.

An odd protectiveness settled on him. The kid couldn't take care of himself, so he was responsible for him.

He was Wolverine.

_The best at what I do_.

He pushed the kid's shoulder again—harder this time. The kid groaned, then opened his eyes, focusing blurrily on Wolverine's face.

Suddenly he bolted upright, jumping to his feet so quickly that even Wolverine was slightly startled.

Good. Maybe there was hope for him, after all.

"It wasn't a dream," Remy lamented, putting a hand to his head as he reeled back. He realized one hand was clenched around the bloodstained-flannel shirt and dropped it suddenly, like he'd realized he was holding a dead and rotting animal. "Agh! Ah, oh, you give dat to . . . to Gambit last night? You very kind, Wolvie. Very, very kind." He was wiping his hands on the outside of his coat, and finally stopped with a shudder. "Too kind." He shivered, hunching a bit in his coat and wrapping his arms around himself.

Wolverine kept a fair distance away, then just nodded, standing slowly and pulling the sagging pants he wore a little higher. He gestured for the kid to follow, and led the way away.

TBC. . .


	13. Fresh Meat

Disclaimer: /checks/ Nope. Still not mine. ;)

Thanks for reviews 'n all, people! Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 13: Fresh Meat

* * *

_I think I gave the kid a heart attack. Don't really blame him. I don't know many who would wake peaceful-like to my mug first thing in the mornin'—'specially like I was then. Probably looked half-animal, half-corpse at the time. Probably smelled about as good, too. _

_But when he calmed down and I got him moving he just wouldn't stop complainin' and whinin' and askin' stupid questions. _

_'Where're we goin', cher? When're we eatin', mon ami? Who are you, homme? Where'd you come from? But why ain't we eatin' breakfast, petite?' The whole time with that damn Cajun talkin' of his. _

_Finally I remembered the words to get him to be quiet. I told him to shut up, and he did. For a while, at least. _

_Kids. _

* * *

_Then:_

"When we gonna eat, mon ami? I tink my stomach just met my backbone."

Wolverine grimaced.

"Wolverine . . . ."

"Shut up," he said again. It didn't work as well the second time.

"I don't get you, petit," Gambit said. "We runnin' through woods like animals. Where your car? Food?"—he gave Wolverine's bare and still-bloodstained chest a sideways look, and his voice lowered to a mutter. "Clothes?"

The kid was damn loud, yammering on like that, not to mention he made as much noise as a lamed deer as he walked.

He was chasing away all the prey, and likely calling all the predators for miles.

Wolverine turned sharply—so quickly that the kid (who was just shorter than he was) almost ran into him, and near lost his balance trying to avoid touching the feral man.

Wolverine growled softly, baring his teeth. The kid stared back at him, his face twisting into an odd expression as if he really didn't know what to make of him.

"You tryin' to tell me something, Canuck?"

Yes. He was. Damn kid needed to shut up, to step lighter, and walk faster.

If all men were like this, men were stupid. How did any of them survive this long at all?

"You Bigfoot or something? Indian, maybe? Don't speak English? Parlez-vous le français?"

Wolverine frowned. That was different, but still a bit familiar. The words came up through memory.

_Did he speak French? _

_Yes. _

But what was French? What did "French" even mean?

He felt a cold shiver, though he didn't know why. The day was warm enough despite the edge to the air, even after he'd taken off his shoes and thrown them over his shoulder along with the remains of his tattered shirt (he hadn't wanted to leave it behind, despite its stink and state).

"You gonna speak at all? Or you some wild thing from da wood? You gonna take me out to your cave and chop me into piece with dose claws a yours?"

No, but he was getting really tempted just to leave the kid. Wolverine might not be too hungry—he had eaten just the night before, after all, and he was used to going for some time without food—but if he didn't learn quick they were both going to starve to death.

He turned and started walking again. After a moment the feet so unfamiliar with the wild land sounded after him, and he stopped again, casting a dirty look over his shoulder.

"Stop," he rumbled.

The words were like a spell. The kid stopped dead-still. Wolverine turned to look at him critically, and the boy stared back with wariness in his eyes.

He pointed at the ground. "Sit," he ordered, no-nonsense.

The kid obeyed slowly, actually sitting on a half-rotting log a half-a-step back, his hand slipping into the inside of his coat—feeling for those odd papers that had blown up the night before. He'd done it a couple times—a nervous habit, Wolverine figured, like a mountain cat bristling in defense when feeling threatened.

So the kid was scared of him.

Why should he care?

He didn't care. It was _good_ the kid was scared of him.

Of course it was good.

He snorted, and without warning reached down, grabbed the kid's right boot, and pulled it off with a sharp movement that actually dragged him right off of his seat and onto the ground with a curse.

"Dammit, homme fou, you give dat back," the kid said, standing with all of his youthful anger. "Look, Remy's sick 'n tired o'dis. I need t'go back ta Nawlins, and I don't have da time to play 'round with you." He drew a card. "Drop da boot, Wolverine."

Wolverine bared his teeth. He didn't want to hurt the kid, but he was threatening him, and he didn't like that. He dropped the boot, and in one fluid motion launched himself at the kid. To his credit, Gambit was able to block an arm, but Wolverine's sudden full weight bearing down on him brought him crashing to the ground like a tidal wave to a castle of toothpicks on the sand. The card flipped from his hand, cleanly sliced in two, and burst in a near-harmless blast on the damp ground behind him.

Wolverine caught Remy's wrists, pinning the kid, who now reeked of—what? Indignation? Oh, yeah, and some fear. But surely he wasn't worried about his pride at a time like this.

"Nice Wolvie. Dat's a good wild man. Jus' let ol' Gambit go and he'll be real nice." Wolverine bore his teeth and snarled in his face, and the kid's dark eyes widened further as his face paled to an almost inhuman color. He swallowed. "Please don't eat me, petit."

Wolverine snorted, his dark eyes narrowed. The kid should know not to fight him—especially now.

He let him up, but not before taking a firm hold of the kid's other boot and pulling it off his foot. Remy put up amazingly little struggle, but instead just scrambled away.

"You gonna pull a man's foot clean off," he said. "But fine—you want da boot—to chew on, or whatever—you have da boot."

Wolverine walked over to his own boots he'd stolen and the other one of the kid's he'd dropped. He sniffed at the one in his hand, then snorted at the stink, recoiling.

"Don' look at me. You da one who drag us all over Canada." Gambit had pulled himself to his feet and now stood gingerly on the pine-needle padded ground. "Come on, Wolvie, I can't go walkin' through da woods like you. Most people aren't like you."

"Shut up," Wolverine grunted at last, tossing the second boot over his shoulder to join the other with a _thud_. "Now. Walk."

Gambit hesitated, then obediently put one foot forward, grimacing, then walked towards him on his toes, wincing at each step. Wolverine growled, suddenly moving forward.

He crouched down, grabbing one of the kid's feet and lifting it so roughly that Remy had to grab the closet tree to keep from getting tripped right off his feet. Wolverine jabbed his foot.

"Step here, and _move_," he said. He let him go, then stood, taking him by the shoulders and shaking him soundly. "Loose."

He stood beside Gambit, looking at him like he was a particularly slow student, and took a slow step forward, taking his time to put his foot down and shift his weight as not to make a sound. He lifted an eyebrow pointedly.

Gambit was watching him with an expression torn between disbelief and dubiousness. "What you dryin' ta say, wil' man?" he asked, folding his arms.

Wolverine glared at him, then looked away, growling softly under his breath.

"What was dat?" Remy asked.

Wolverine gave him one last piercing and annoyed glare, then stopped to slip the two pairs of boots under his arm and started walking forward. Gambit didn't move at first, then sighed and started forward after him. Stiffly at first, then lower to the ground, more confident as his skill so of slinking invisible through the streets of New Orleans began to adapt to this strange land.

He gave the wild man's back an odd look.

He could have sworn he heard him say "Tu marchez comme un tank Nazi." But that couldn't be right. He must've been hearing things.

Bon dieu, he was going crazy.

* * *

_Now:_

It was Saturday. Logan usually took the quieter mornings to catch up on sleep, but this time he was up and out still well before dawn despite the late night. Sure, there were always the dreams that bothered him, but this time it was something else.

He went running, pushing himself harder and farther than he usually did, and when he got back to the mansion most everyone was still sound asleep. The halls were still quiet, save for an early winter robin singing, its song distant even for him, until it faded with his distance into the mansion. Sunlight was just turning the shadowed wall-panels and polished wooden floor to red-gold. He refused to let it remind him of Jean.

She was in Chuck's old office. She'd taken over it, more or less, though in truth she'd hardly moved a thing out of place all these months. Logan sympathized, even while he frowned at the fruitless gesture. The professor was dead, after all, without even any remains but a handful of dust. But then, he hadn't tried to suggest to Ororo that they clean out Jean's stuff either, even with new students' arrivals, since the school went public.

He opened the door silently—if there was anything he loved about living in such a high-quality place rather than his habitual dive, it was that doors opened without a sound—and just watched her for a second, bent over some papers with the morning sun brushing her hair.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him loud enough for her to hear. She looked up sharply, startled, and only more so when she saw who it was.

"Good morning, Logan."

It wasn't said bitterly or sarcastically, and neither could he smell such a thing—or was she just real good at hiding it? Probably the latter.

"Mornin'," Logan said. "What are you doin' up?"

"I might ask the same of you."

Logan grunted, trying to look uncaring and casual as he stood there, still barefoot and wearing only the sweats and loose t-shirt he'd slept in the night before, both sweatstained now from his workout.

Storm gestured at the papers in front of her. "Actually, I could use your help, if you're not busy." Logan stepped forward to see, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm trying to hire some new faculty. I'm sure you've noticed the need."

"It's about time," Logan said, grabbing one closed files that sat on the edge and opening it. "All mutants?"

"The applications were voluntary, Logan."

"I'll take that as a yes." He glanced down at the three other folders on the desk. "Heh. I guess they ain't linin' up for a spot, then."

Ororo sighed. "Most mutants prefer not to be known. When the professor was here we could seek them out—but I guess we just do what we can."

Logan paged through the application, pausing at the picture. It was a woman with green hair (What the hell?). She was young, with sharp eyes and lips pulled into a slight frown.

_Name: Lorna Dane. Codename: Polaris._

Not a bad looking broad, even if the hair was a bit strange. Surely it wasn't natural.

Of course, Logan'd been asked that of his own hair before. Maybe it was some strange side-effect of her mutation.

Weird.

His eyebrows lifted. "Power of magnetism?" he read. He looked at Storm. "Do you blame me if I vote down for this one?" He hated how powerless he'd felt in Magneto's hands—like a puppet on strings.

_Helpless_. Damn-he hated that feeling.

Storm sighed. "That's the problem. There's enough fears against mutants without adding to that the power of magnetism. It doesn't help that Magneto has even claimed to be Lorna's father." Logan gave a low whistle.

"That's strike two and three, 's far as I'm concerned," he said, sitting on the edge of the desk. It creaked under his weight, but he figured it was strong enough to hold. If not, he was sure Ororo could afford a new desk, with everything she'd been left with.

"The X-Men came across Lorna some time ago, but after Magneto began his business . . . well, she took off with Alex to some dig . . . somewhere." She waved her hand vaguely. "Actually, Alex sent in an application with her."

"Alex?"

Storm looked at him. "Scott's younger brother. His codename is Havok—he controls powerful plasma blasts, but has had some trouble controlling them in the past."

"One-Eye has a brother?" Logan hadn't known. Of course, he hadn't really asked either. Nor cared, at that. "Great. Just what we need."

"Alex and Scott were very much their own people," Storm said. "Their parents were killed when they were very young, and I think Alex grew to resent the parent-role that Scott tried to fill."

"Don't blame him," Logan muttered under his breath, dropping Dane's folder on the desk. "So, no to Boy Scout the second, no to Magneta. Who's left?"

Storm looked ready to protest his easy dismissal, but then just shook her head and continued. "That's the problem, Logan. The only other two are women that I'd probably fight to the end before I let them step across our threshold."

Logan looked at her, one eyebrow cocked in interest. "Really? Let's see 'em." He snatched the folders and opened the first.

_Name: Lady Tessa_. No second name? All right, whatever. He, of all people, could deal with that. _Codename: Sage._ Not very specific, was she? Of course, it was better than 'Havok.' Yeah, he sure wanted a guy with that codename around a bunch of kids.

_Powers: Superhuman mental processing including perfect memory and data analysis. _

What the hell? Now _that_ just sounded like a dictionary excerpt. But her picture wasn't too bad—a dark-haired chick, dressed in—of all things—a black _corset_, showing off her wares like a cheap whore

Was she serious? She looked like a bad porn star, and sounded worse.

Still, what was up with all these broads? Did mutant powers automatically make them hot as hell and twice as sexy? Not to mention that black leather . . .

Still, that didn't ring a bell in the "good for children" category.

"Huh." He dropped it back on the desk and picked up the next. The picture included caught his eye immediately. The picture was flawless—from the slightly tilted blue eyes to the perfect-shaped chin and nose. Her face was smooth—young, and framed in perfectly-styled blond hair—but her eyes were experienced, the set of her chin calculating. The description of powers was short and to the point: _Class four telepath._

Emma Frost, eh? The 'White Queen'? But what was the deal with corset theme—even if this one _was_ white? Didn't they realize how _little_ that sort of thing left to the imagination?

He took his time, pretending to scan the page while he enjoyed the view for a few seconds longer.

"My guess is that one of them entered as a joke, and the other entered just for spite," Storm said with a tired smile, leaning her chin on her elbow and looking at them.

"Am I missin' some more history here?" Logan asked. It sure seemed there was a lot of it.

"I'll keep it short in saying that Miss Frost and the _Lady_ Tessa were both in the inner circle of the Hellfire Club."

"Sounds cozy."

"They're a group of wealthy and powerful mutants manipulating the world in order to gain greater power and riches."

"Where do you sign up?"

"Very funny, Logan."

"Who said I was joking?" he replied, looking back down at the file. "So, what's the deal?"

"A few years ago, just after the professor started accepting a larger group into the school, we had some . . . problems."

Logan's eyebrow lifted. "Problems?"

"It was one of our first missions as X-Men. We were inexperienced."

"In other words, they beat you five ways to hell and back," he said knowingly. Storm glared at him, but didn't deny it.

"Emma Frost and an illusionist of theirs were able to convince Jean she was on their side. It was . . . the first time we ever had to deal with the Phoenix. Suffice it to say that the X-Men were very nearly put an end to before we hardly had begun."

Logan started, looking up to stare at her. "What the hell're you on about?" he demanded. "The _first _time?"

"They set Jean's powers free—made them go wild, somehow. I don't know the details, but . . . the professor said he'd put it well under control. Jean . . . Jean agreed to his caging it in her mind."

Logan jerked to his feet, too agitated to remain sitting. He ran a hand through his hair, seemingly forgetting the folder in his hand. "And I've never heard of this _why_?"

"Even if you were a 'social butterfly,' Wolverine, it would take more than a few hours to catch you up with _everything_ the X-Men faced before you joined up. And it wasn't like you've been in a mood to hear _anything_ about Jean, either."

Logan ignored that, looking back down at the folder. He was silent for a minute, pretending to read the page, but now not even really seeing the picture of the hot blond.

"So how'd you beat her?" he asked neutrally. They hadn't had to kill Jeannie before. Had there been a chance that he hadn't had to kill her? Could he have saved her, somehow . . . ?

"It was Scott," Storm admitted softly. "The Phoenix couldn't kill him. They had a . . . a bond, Logan. Jean used to say she followed it back from the darkness back into her true self."

Logan didn't answer at first. He couldn't look at Storm, and for nowhere else to look his eyes went back down to the picture of the White Queen in his hand.

"It's too damn bad it didn't work the second time."

So this lady'd suckered Jean, huh? That made her powerful, at least. And dangerous, certainly. What was she playing at? They didn't really think them desperate (or stupid) enough to actually seriously consider them.

"So what sort of game are they playing, pretending to want to come here?"

"Since then, both of them went separate ways from the Inner Circle, from what I hear," Storm said. "_Apparently_ they've both had a whole and complete change of heart. Frost even tried opening a mutant academy of her own in Massachusetts, but something happened. I just heard there was a bomb, or something. One of the students died, and it all fell apart. She writes in her application how her new life's goal is to help young mutants in a world increasingly hostile towards them."

Logan grunted. "Well, we know who Xavier would choose if he were here. He always did like the hopeless cases."

"The professor had hope enough for all of us," Storm replied, looking down at the folders.

Logan closed Emma Frost's folder and dropped it on the desk. "Well, darlin', I can't help you."

"I think you're too hasty in your judgment, Logan. I trust Alex and Lorna. I was actually just about to give them a call and ask them when they could get here."

"See? It's not like you need me anyway." He stood, arching backwards as he stretched. His back popped with a vaguely metallic sound, and he shook himself slightly, like a dog rising from the rug, as he turned to go.

"Logan?" He paused, looking back at her with his usual glare. "Thank you for listening."

Logan grunted, dismissing her thanks, and left, closing the door behind him. Ororo looked at the closed door for a few seconds longer, then chuckled softly, shaking her head as she reached for the phone.

* * *

_It took him some time, but lookin' back I gotta say that kid was a natural. Sure, I figured he was still as helpless as a squirrel kit with its eyes still closed, but he wasn't half bad. Wonder what happened to him. _

_He cursed up a storm, though. Did good enough, like I said, but Canada ain't no walk in the park, and hardly barefoot weather for the average kid. Damn, if 'Ro ever found out how I treated that kid I'd be kicked out once 'n for all. The bastard animal that I am just didn't know any better, I guess. _

_Still, by 'round noon I realized his feet were startin' to bleed, and they weren't healing up properly, and he was startin' to shiver again too. We took a quick rest and I gave him back his boots. He kept gettin' better at the walkin' thing, too, so I let him keep his boots. Too little, too late, maybe. I dunno, but the poor kid just didn't take to the cold very well, and takin' his boots didn't help at all, I can tell you that. _

* * *

_Then:_

The kid's footsteps were considerably softer, even taking into account his slight limp. Was something wrong with him? Wolverine hadn't noticed anything terribly bad before he put his boots on—just a little bleeding, but still . . .

There was a blur from the bushes, and before Gambit could register what it was Wolverine had leaped forward, slamming into the deer at full-force.

His claws slit through its jugular at the same time as the other set ripped through its chest, shredding its heart and killing it almost instantly. Blood fountained from the wounds, splattering on the Wolverine's face and chest. Some splattered on Gambits boots before he could jump back to a safe distance.

Wolverine turned from his prey to the kid. The taste of his meal was already in his mouth—it was best hot, with the rush of the hunt. He wiped his bloodstained forearm across his chops, smearing the redness there.

"Mon dieu," Gambit swore. He turned away suddenly, bending over his knees and gagging into the bushes. Wolverine wrinkled his nose at the bitter scent as the kid ejected whatever it was in his stomach.

Was the kid sick? Poisoned? Wolverine hadn't seen him eat anything.

He moved forward, slowly, reaching out a hand towards the kid.

Gambit recoiled sharply from his blood-stained fingers, staggering to dodge his reach. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, looking green.

"I—'m all right," he said faintly. "I—I'm stuck in da middle a nowhere wit a wild man, but I'm all right. Gambit gonna be okay."

Wolverine looked down at his hands, turning them over to see the blood flecked up his arms. He felt something in his gut—was he feeling sick too? He glanced back at his kill, but no—he hadn't tasted poison, and this was fresh meat. The meat was good. But suddenly he wasn't all that hungry anymore, and something—maybe that—made him mad.

The kid was still staring at him—his strange eyes seeming even darker in his pale face. And for some reason—the growing knot in his stomach, the itch of the kid's eyes on him—it made him angry. Furious. He wished the deer was still alive, so he could kill it all over again.

With a soft snarl, he turned, snikting his claws and ripping a large piece off the flank with ease. He tossed it to the kid. It landed at his feet with a sickening thud, and Wolverine went back to his meal.

"You poor devil," Gambit said, drawing his arms around himself.

Wolverine ripped into his meal, ignoring the damn kid. He needed to stay strong—to eat food while he could—and it was just pain. He didn't know where it was coming from, but it would go away. It always did.

Dammit, if the kid didn't stop staring, he was going to kill him.

He finished, turning to the kid, who was still standing there, one hand over his stomach as he stared down at the fresh cut still sitting in the dirt after his feet.

What the hell was he waiting for?

"D—d'you know where dere's a river, homme? Gambit need a drink."

Were all kids this needy?

Wolverine bared his teeth briefly, and the kid took a quick step back, but then the wild man turned and stepped in another direction. The kid didn't follow immediately, but paused to pick up the meat before following.

"Ugh," the kid muttered. "I get back ta N'awlins, and I never gonna eat meat again."

TBC . . .


	14. Two's Company

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

**BLACKDEW'S STRATEGY PLANNER:**

**Goal**: _Get more reviews._

**Steps to Success:**

#1: Put off studying for finals as long as possible (Warning: may have possible negative effects)

#2: Write (Warning: may cause eventual carpal tunnel and vision damage)

#3: Write some more (May result in sleep deprivation)

#4: Post more often to see if I can lure a couple more reviewers out of the woodwork

#5: Write more (See above for possible negative side effects)

#6: Repeat steps 2-5 as needed (Consult health insurance planner if necessary)

#7: Beg

/commences begging/

* * *

Chapter 14: Two's Company

* * *

_Then:_

The river wasn't far off the trail, which was good. Wolverine was feeling the urge to get farther away from mankind—he'd smelled some of them earlier on that day, and even if the scent was old and fading, he didn't like it. It brought back memories he was trying to forget.

They were still too close to the place with the beer, and after the trouble they'd had, the men could try to come after them. To hunt them.

But it was almost night, anyway. The kid was beginning to shiver again, and he looked about ready to fall over if they didn't stop and rest soon.

Wolverine snorted softly, then walked to the water and knelt down to drink.

"Dat water good ta drink, Wolverine?"

Wolverine looked up from his long drink—his muttonchops dripping—and looked at him as if he were particularly dense.

"Yeah, I guess dat's a stupid question ta ask you." He still didn't move from the few steps behind him. The distance probably made him feel safer, though Wolverine knew that was stupid. He could cross that distance in the time it took the kid to blink, if he wanted to.

He began washing the drying blood off his arms and face, his hearing still towards the kid as he finally took a hesitant step forward. The kid knelt down a few steps upstream, put the meat that he'd been carrying beside him, then began washing his hands. Wolverine watched curiously as he washed with an absurd caution, scrubbing at his hands like they were diseased. The kid then waited for a couple minutes before dipping his cupped hands into the water, and drinking from his hands, though most of the water slipped right between his fingers.

Wolverine grunted in amusement, shaking water droplets from his hair.

Men were strange.

The kid then went on to wash his meat—which Wolverine could understand, and he thought it might be a good idea in the future, if he didn't mind letting the meat get cold. The dirt mixed in with the blood just didn't taste too good, after all. The kid stood, holding the slickly dripping cut in a hand and looking at him uncertainly. "Well, you don't mind Gambit doing the cooking? All right if he start da fire right here for da night?"

A fire?

Wolverine lifted his nose, testing the air.

The low clouds would hide the smoke from anyone who might be watching. They would be safe. He was tired and had a stomach full of food, but he could take care of any predators—unlike the kid—if they came lurking.

He nodded to the kid's question, continuing to wash the blood from his skin.

The kid moved around, looking for dry wood and twigs and placed them carefully on the ground. He took the meat and washed it at the river before looking over at Wolverine, who had stripped and was now walking around in the shallow water, his wild hair dripping as he waded waist-deep, apparently looking for fish.

"Wolverine?" Remy called hesitantly.

Wolverine's head jerked up in a motion much more familiar to animals than men as he looked to him.

"Can't cook a thing dis size," the kid explained. "Mind cutting it with . . . dose claws of yours?"

Wolverine paused, looking up at him with no little annoyance. He spoke one word, then went back to his business.

"You."

Gambit laughed weakly. "Dat a funny joke, Wolverine. But like most people, I don't got big o' knives hiding in my knuckles."

Wolverine looked up at him, frowned, then rose right out of the water. Gambit took an involuntary step back as the wild man came to him, then held his ground.

_SNIKT! _

Flawless blades jutted from Wolverine's fist. He sliced quickly and neatly—the claws cutting through the tough meat as if it were soft butter before handing it back to the kid, who was staring at his claws

Wolverine followed his gaze, looking at the freshly-rebloodied blades. He turned them over, watching the evening light catch the edge.

His eyes narrowed, and the cold water dripping down his legs suddenly felt like ice. Dread built up in his mind, ready to ambush him, like the images in his sleep.

What was it? What did they mean?

The kid was staring at them too. "Dose aren't natural, are dey, Wolvie?" he asked, his voice soft. He looked up at him. "Someone _did _that to you. You weren't always like dis, were you?"

Wolverine's frown back was confused, not understanding. He retracted his claws and glared at the kid, who looked away quickly. Wolverine grunted and turned away from him, still frowning.

He sat down in the shadows of the forest, his legs crossed and drawn up close against his chest for warmth. He was a fair distance away as he watched the kid make his fire—a _safe_ distance away if there was an explosion like there had been before.

But no—he didn't use a card at all. Instead, he pulled some plastic thing out of his coat and flicked it, and yellow flames licked at the kindling he'd gathered. It took some time, but at last the kid had the meat over the fire, dripping its greases onto the red-hot wood.

Finally, the kid took the crisp meat from the fire, letting it cool before ripping into it like a ravenous wolf.

It was a while before he slowed down, taking time to chew before he swallowed, which Wolverine was grateful for. He didn't want the kid choking to death.

Suddenly the kid went still, casting a nervous look in his direction. He drew his coat around him, his breath showing in the air.

"You wanna come over here, Wolvie? It's a whole lot warmer."

Wolverine didn't move.

"I . . . I tink this tastes better too, homme, if you want some."

Silence.

The kid bit his lip, pushing his hair out of his eyes with greasy fingers. He hesitated, then tore a piece of steaming meat off of his meal and carefully tossed it onto the other side of the fire.

Wolverine watched it—watched the steam rising. His fingers and toes were a bit numb—the torn and blood-stiff pants he'd pulled on after wading were slightly damp and cold. And he was a little hungry, still. Maybe.

Slowly he unfolded himself from his position, rising cautiously. He moved forward, his nose twitching at the scent of the cooked meat, and slowly lifted the piece from the dirt.

He brushed it off, the warmth pleasant against his fingers, and then stuffed it all in his mouth.

It was cooled just enough not to burn his mouth. He chewed it carefully, then swallowed. The meat settled nicely in his stomach.

Ah. So that was how they did it at the place with the beer. It didn't taste quite as good, and it was a bit overdone, but that was all right.

"Here's some more," the kid held out a bigger piece towards him.

Wolverine came forward slowly, taking the meat from the kid and eating it. He sat down there, enjoying the warmth of the fire.

It was good. Even though the fire was dangerous—he knew men could possible see it, and follow the light out to find them—he knew it was good. And for this one night, at least, it was worth the danger.

They sat in silence for some long minutes. The wind was picking up a little, and the kid added more wood to the fire and edged closer.

The fire's warmth grew, and Wolverine shifted slightly away, so that the warmth was a brush of temptation rather than a compassing feeling against the chill of the night. He stared at the flames, mesmerized by the flickering light.

It was good. But something told him it could hurt—burn. Kill.

There was a vague thought, almost a—what? Dream?

_Memory_?

Rising up with bloodlust terrible pain, terror, confusion, and a rage of flames—popping his claws, and then smelling the gas. It swept over him like a wave, blistering his skin, boiling his blood, turning his agony-curled fingers to crisp bones, blackened and burning . . .

He wanted to _kill _them. He wanted to rip them, to tear them, to stop it . . . to stop it all, but he couldn't move. His senses were overwhelmed with the stench of his own burning flesh—and then just pain. His limbs were shriveling, pulled down by a terrible, unnatural weight. He couldn't move—helpless. Helpless, with pain burning away his eyes, his brain . . . God . . . What had they done with him?

_"Oh my God! Oh my God!" _

_"Necessary action, doctor. You saw what happened. He was about to attack again." _

_"Yes . . . but . . . I mean, can't we treat him better than this? He's still human in _some_ way, isn't he?" _

_"In some way . . . But your earlier description was more apt, perhaps. A mindless, murdering animal, I believe you said." _

_"Guess so . . . " _

He was a mindless, murdering animal.

_No! He wasn't! He wasn't! _

Oh, God, he wanted to kill them.

_He∙wanted∙to∙go∙back∙and∙rip∙them∙open∙and∙kill∙and∙kill∙and∙kill∙them∙all∙over∙again∙they'd∙hurt∙him∙they'd∙killed∙him∙oh∙god∙he'd∙KILL∙them∙what∙had∙they∙done∙to∙him∙what∙was∙he∙what∙was∙he∙WHO∙WAS∙HE? ∙he∙was∙a∙MAN∙a∙MAN!∙he∙was . . . he∙was . . . _

_oh∙god∙oh∙god∙oh∙god . . . _

"Wolverine?"

The Wolverine started with a gasp, jerking his eyes up, and away from where he was staring at his hands. He looked around the forest, the screaming voice in his head disappearing like a dream. He realized he was panting, and the wind chilled fresh sweat dripping down his face. His head felt like someone had struck a nail through the base of his skull

He clenched fists with a growl. The kid watched him, his strange red eyes flickering like embers in the shadows as he watched him.

"You okay? Y-you looked out of it for a second, dere." Wolverine turned his face away. Gambit hesitated, and asked, almost to himself as he pulled his coat more around him. "What you thinkin' about?"

There was silence for a long moment. The pain of the waking-dream was fading, leaving behind an empty, terrible void.

He wanted to howl. To rage. The animal wanted blood.

_SNIKT! _

The kid jumped, sliding backwards automatically, but the Wolverine just stared at the claws of the hand he'd popped for a second, turning shining, flawless blades over and seeing the flames reflect off them. He glanced back at the kid, and then looked back down, retracting them again.

_SNAKT. SNIKT. SNAKT. SNIKT. SNAKT. SNIKT. SNAKT. _

Blood dripped from the cuts as blades cut through them again and again, breaking the skin. It ran between his fingers, and dripped down, leaving a new bloodstain on his torn and filthy pant leg.

"Somethin' happened to you, didn't it?" Gambit whispered softly. "You not half the animal you act, are you, homme? Someone hurt you. Someone hurt you . . . real bad."

_SNIKT._ Wolverine paused, looking at him, and wiped the liquid off his face. It was clear sweat, of course, but he'd almost expected it to be scarlet red.

"What your name?"

He knew that one. "Wolverine," he answered gruffly.

"Wolverine—that's an animal, you know that? You—you a man." Wolverine snorted—he knew that he was a man, after all. He'd figured that out on his own, damn him. "You even a freak like me, but dose claws—dey metal. You . . . you weren't born wit dose, were you? You weren't always like dis." Remy's eyes darted to the dogtags glinting on his chest, but his eyes scurried away. He huddled deeper into his coat. "What happened to you, homme?"

What happened to him? He was born. He woke up, in the snow, he was . . .

He looked down at his still-extended claws.

_Had he been something—someone—before this? Had he been a man, before he'd been an animal? _

And if he had, _why couldn't he remember?_

* * *

_It's funny. I didn't really think that I was all that different from everyone else. Sure, the kid called us 'freaks,' but that didn't really mean anything to me. I just figured everyone kept their claws hidden—I did most the time anyway. It got me thinkin'—somethin' I didn't do too much back then. Still dunno if I do. And Storm just loves to do that—track me down in the middle of the night and try to get me to think. It takes some getting used to. _

_But y'know, thing's've been getting' a bit better around here. Ororo's stopped yankin' my chain so much, and y'know, she ain't half so bad as she lets on. I figure she respected ol' Cyke a little too much, and it's wearin' on her. She's gotta figure out how to run this place her own way, or she's gonna fall apart. _

_I told her that last night, when I ran into her again in the woods (like I said, she's been doin' that more often now, but I guess nothin' bad's come of it so far)—thought she might blow up on me (that woman's as defending as a tiger to her kits when it comes to Charlie and Summers)—but she surprised me. Actually thanked me. _

_Hell, who'm I kiddin'? I gotta stop this before I do somethin' that'll bring this whole place down on all of our heads. _

* * *

_Now:_

It was late, even for a Saturday. Good time of day—probably the best. The kids were finally in bed, except for a few who Logan didn't really give a damn if they stayed up all night. Rogue was old enough, and so were a number of the students. Even if Ororo insisted a curfew be kept, if Kitty was running up and down through floors after hours, it wasn't like he was going to rat her out.

'Sides, curfew was good. Kylee, the little furball, got downright bitchy if she got to bed too late, and a late Saturday night was enough to keep everyone awake. She was asleep right now, tucked into Logan's bed—again. Figures. Just when he had started getting used to sleeping in a good bed, he ended up getting kicked out and onto the floor again.

Of course, that was _his_ idea, not Kylee's. He didn't want to wake up after a nightmare and . . .

Hell, he hardly dared sleep in the same room with her at all. No wonder he was so tired. Even with the couple hours of sleep he got in the forest last night after Storm'd taken off, he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept for more than a couple hours together . . . .

He shook himself, shrugging on his jacket as he stepped down the stairs and down the hall towards the door. With luck Storm would already be in bed, so he wouldn't have to have another one of those damn talks about being a damn good example to the kids.

Just as he thought that, though, he stepped into the entryway and caught her scent.

Think of the devil.

"You're leaving, Logan?"

"What's it look like?"

Storm stepped out of the adjacent hallway, her odd blue eyes watching him. She was dressed in her robe, her feet bare, and she smelled like earth and green things. She'd probably just come in from her greenhouse.

She'd spent a lot of time there, since she'd taken over the school. He wondered if she was getting even worse hours of sleep than he was.

"Can I help you with somethin', darlin'?"

Ororo took another step forward, her robe shifting around her, and Logan felt his eyes being drawn down to her neckline—but no, damn him. This was Storm, not some cheap whore at a bar.

_But did that make it bad to enjoy the view? _

He wasn't hurting anyone, after all.

She folded her arms, not helping him in the slightest. His eyes slid down again.

"You'll be back?" she asked.

Logan looked towards the door. "Course. I promised the kids an extra exercise tomorrow, 'cause they were so overeager today."

"Oh yes," Storm said with a smile. "I heard about that. Bobby sure has loosened up a lot, hasn't he?"

"I liked him better when he was a Scott-wannabe," Logan grunted.

Right in the middle of the two-mile run Logan'd ordered the kids on for yapping away like overactive pups, the popsicle'd froze up a hundred-plus snowballs and started a full on, flaming snowball fight. He threw a bunch at Angel, who'd scooped up an armful and taken to the air, but with his city-boy aim (even if it was improving, Logan admitted grudgingly) he'd accidentally plummelled Jubilee, which brought the girls full on into the growing fight. Colossus was dragged in by Kitty's encouragement, and inevitably half the school was involved before all the snow'd melted into a mess of mud and scorched earth (powers had been called free game after Kitty had gone intangible right before getting whitewashed by Rogue, who'd switched sides in the middle of the fight.

"If I recall correctly, though, you seemed to be having as much fun as the rest of them," Ororo commented.

"Learning opportunity," Logan grunted. "Damn if I was about to let Iceman get away with it without a taste of his own medicine."

"And what about Angel?"

"He hit me first." Again with the bad aiming. "'Sides, there was stuff enough to be learned out there. Never seen so much back-stabbing in my life. Prepare 'em for the real world." Even Rogue'd turned on him in the end. He hadn't planned on throwing her in the pool, but she'd good as asked for it.

Storm laughed—a damn good sound, even if he wouldn't admit it.

"It'd love to see those kind of lessons more often, Logan."

"Yeah, Blobbo and Fireboy really love snowball fights, let me tell you," he replied dryly. "Next time I see Magneto we'll talk about an arms truce."

Storm smiled. He pulled out a cigar and turned a bit away as he lit up, getting it going good and well and just waiting for Ororo to tell him to put it out. But instead—unexpectedly, she put a light hand on his arm.

He felt a shock right through his skeleton, the animal in him snarling alarm. He jerked back, putting an automatic step between them. His stance was instinctively defensive, his fists clenching without thought.

Storm took her own step back, looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Logan."

Logan wanted to growl—not at her, but at him. At himself, the screwed-up, wild bastard that he was. Couldn't even handle a surprise touch from a woman—even one he might even trust a bit—without setting his heart a pounding like Juggernaut on a treadmill. "Don't be," he said, unclenching his fists and stuffing the lighter in his hand into his pocket. He'd burned his palm when he'd clenched it in his fist, but even as he recognized the pain it had healed up and was gone.

He turned to the door, not looking at her.

"Be careful out there, Logan," Storm said, and while her voice still held a slight apologetic tone, it was also slightly playful—teasing.

This wasn't the normal lecture. It was too nice, too easy to walk out the door into the night, like she knew he'd be coming back. She had trust that'd he'd be back, that she could expect him back, that she could expect him to be there.

He didn't like it one bit. He put his hand on the doorknob, but then stopped.

He glanced over at the weather goddess, her hair alight in the dim glow of the hall light behind him.

He _didn't_ like it one bit.

"It wouldn't work, Storm."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talkin' about. I can smell it, 'Ro, and I'll tell you what. You need to get out—to get out of here some of the time and see good people. Locked up here with nobody but the Celibate Blue Priest and me, I don't blame you for not thinkin' right. You—me—there's nothin' there, got it? I ain't worth it."

"Smell?" Ororo repeated, looking a bit taken aback. That's right, smell. He could smell that she was growing more attracted to him—_flirting_ with him, dammit!

Damn, she smelled wonderful.

_He _didn't_ like it one bit. _

But then Ororo's eyes darkened, and she frowned at him. "What do you mean, you aren't worth it?"

Logan bristled. "You don't know me, and dammit, I don't think you want to know me—'cause you can't understand it. So keep the hell to yourself, got it?"

The end. End of story.

Logan threw open the door and stepped out before closing the door firmly between them, cutting the conversation short and finishing it once and for all.

Best stop a thing like that before it got started.

TBC . . .

If you're reading it and liking it, please review! (In fact, even if you don't like it, I wouldn't mind even a flame around now-it's cold enough outside!)


	15. One's Better

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Thanks for the reviews! You guys are great! They definitely helped me survive finals week over here! ;)

**BLACKDEW'S STRATEGY PLANNER (slightly revised and highly simplified):**

**Goal**: _Get more reviews (again, because it worked so well last time)_

**Steps to Success:**

1. Write

2. Post

3. The end

* * *

Chapter 15: One's Better

* * *

_Now:_

What Logan loved about his adopted Harley was the same thing he loved about running out in the woods at night. You get on a deserted road with no lights, you hit the gas for all its worth—and that's freedom. The wind snagged at his jacket as he ducked down, decreasing the wind flow, and he let himself soar.

It reminded him of flying. Of course, he'd never flown—not outside like this, with the wind sweeping the air from his face, but it was almost familiar.

Damn that he couldn't say why. For all he knew, that familiar feeling—like a shadow, or a ghost of a memory walking across his mind—could mean anything, or nothing at all.

Maybe he had a Harley before. Maybe he had a jeep. Or maybe he had a penchant for sky diving—any of those would work. But none of them rang a bell.

He pushed the throttle on higher, listening to the machine roar underneath him like a wild animal set free.

Forgetting, ignoring, leaving things behind in the darkness.

How many times had he done this very thing? The irony of his life was that no matter how much he tried to remember, it always seemed he just built up more things he wanted to forget.

But he never could. Drinks wouldn't do it, drugs wouldn't do it, broads wouldn't do it.

Only the wild. Only freedom. Only the purring, wild lure of the animal inside of him.

Dammit, the only way to forget would be to lose himself, maybe for good.

And after fighting all this time to become a man, he couldn't let go of that.

Even when it would be so much easier—so much simpler, just to let it all go, and run free.

The illusion of it—running in the woods, or roaring on his bike—it was the closest he could let himself get to the edge.

So he flew—riding the wind, riding the edge of glorious wild freedom—and even the beast rejoiced in it.

In the darkness, he barely saw the blur of the swinging blade before it hit him. He jerked the bike to the side instinctively, but it was too little too late. Metal tore through metal; the tires screeched as the bike twisted sideways, and then Logan was airborne.

_Shit!_

He hit the road, with enough forward momentum to make him skip off the rough asphalt like a stone off the surface of a lake. The first hit he landed on his head, smashing his nose into fragments and near knocking him out as half the skin was torn off of his scalp, which he was actually grateful for, because it made the rest of it harder to remember. He flew into the air, flipping clean over before landing on his back and rolling, tearing off his shirt and the layers of flesh beneath like a meat cleaver.

He must've blacked out for a second, because when he came back to himself the world had stopped turning (despite the fact that he still somehow felt like it was), and he felt like he'd been turned into ground beef. His arms burned like a million ants were burrowing under his skin—nah, not ants. Maybe acid. Yeah, he could remember acid, and that was as close to this as he could figure.

Someone had done this. Someone with—

—a sword?

He heard it—or maybe felt it, since one of his ears was probably lying shredded about twenty yards back by what was left of his bike. But instinct screamed at him, and with what strength he could muster he rolled away, just as a sword slashed just where his neck had been, burying the tip of the blade in the road.

Logan staggered to his feet, shaking his head at some blood dripping into one of his eyes. He couldn't feel the other one—there was just a flame of agony from the whole side of his face—it was probably half on the road along with his missing ear. The blade was coming again—but no—there were two—and somehow he managed to catch both of them between the claws on each hand. The guy was fast, though—he spun away, leaping to a safe distance.

Logan spun backwards himself, giving himself room to catch his breath and gauge his opponent. His attacker was swathed in black—

Damn, was he serious?

If it weren't for the fact that his blood felt like it was boiling in his veins—on his torn skin, tearing through him with a howling fury—he would have laughed out loud.

Only he had enough bad luck to get attacked by a psycho-ninja on a back road in the middle of New York.

"Hello again, meat," the man rasped. His voice sounded like metal on metal, and made Logan's newly-growing hair stand on end. Damn, even that hurt. "After all this time, I'd wondered where you'd been hiding." The veil over his face shifted, and Logan had the absurd feeling that the son-of-a-bitch was smiling. "I'm very glad you're not dead."

Logan took the opportunity to try and brush away some of the blood from his eye again—he needed to be able to see. White agony threatened to make him pass out again—but no. The rage was beginning to raise, to sweep the pain away. It was just pain, after all. He'd heal. He'd forget.

"All right," he growled, his own blood in his mouth as he felt his nose beginning to reshape itself, and the healing of his skin fire as bad as the injury itself. The animal wanted to kill him right now, and ask questions later, but he needed time to let his healing factor do its work. The world was spinning—or was that his head?—and the ragged remains of his pants were clinging to his legs—literally soaked with scarlet. "I don't know who you are, but you just earned yourself a one-way ticket to hell." He held his claws before him. "Got any last words, pal? I'm dyin' ta have you spill yer guts."

The man raised his sword and shorter knife in front of him. "So it is true about your memories. Almost a pity—yet it seems you haven't changed at all." He reached up, pulling the veil down, so Logan saw a blurred, too-pale face in the shadows of his cowl. The man smiled—no. He bore his teeth like an animal, and Logan returned it, blood dripping between his teeth. "You still talk too much."

"Who are you, and how the hell d'ya know me?" Logan demanded. His nose healed enough that he finally got a whiff of the man before him, though it was tainted with the stink of his own blood. Whatever it was, he wasn't human. Not a normal one, anyway, and not any kind of mutant he'd ever come across. The guy stank worse than Sabertooth (and that was saying something). "What the hell are you?"

The man-creature—whatever the hell it was—raised its sword, and Logan tensed. "Yes, get me talking, and let yourself heal. Always a good plan, isn't it, immortal one?"

He lunged. The bastard was _fast_—inhumanly fast, and Logan was barely able to catch the sword before it sliced right into his throat. The second blade sliced through his already-hamburgered leg, and he staggered, twisting backwards and striking out at the same time. His claws caught black fabric, and the psycho flipped out of the way, standing before him.

"I ain't immortal," Logan snarled, wanting to rush him, wanting to charge at him and claw away until he was lost in red and gore and blood. But he couldn't. The bastard was too fast, he was too injured—light-headed. He need time to heal, time to _think_.

His attacker spun, landing smoothly and facing them. "That's what you told me decades ago, but you haven't changed. Not since Madripoor . . . No—Not since France."

France? What did this guy know? What was he talking about? It didn't matter that this foul-smelling clown was trying to kill him—he knew who he had been, and Logan was going to take opportunity of that. If only to slow him down and allow himself more time to heal. "What the hell was I doin' in France, let alone with a bastard like you?"

He wanted to lose himself in the animal raging up inside him—it'd make the pain go away, but he couldn't let himself let his go. He'd worked so hard to rein the animal in; if he let it out now he'd have to start all over again.

The pale man lunged again, and Logan ducked, bringing his claws up and pivoting—somehow deflecting both blades harmlessly away and managing to strike back. He felt something more solid catch on his blades, smelled the stink of the creature increase as he sliced through flesh, but didn't follow up. He spun backwards, putting distance between them and cursing under his breath as he felt the world tilt again, and his good eye's vision grow paler.

_Take your time. Think. You are a man, not an animal. Fight like one._

It was another one of those phantom voices. He wished he had time to wonder where this one was from.

The ninja-guy landed perfectly, his long pale hair coming free of the hood. He wasn't unbalanced or winded, and Logan couldn't see where he had felt his claws catch him.

"I am known as Bloodscream," the creature replied, eerily composed, uncannily posed to strike—like a giant rattler surrounding a rat. "And I need your blood, Ancient One. _Only by the blood of an immortal will you be freed._"

_Blood_? What the hell was this madman on? Didn't he realize Halloween wasn't for another month?

He could feel his muscles stitching back together, and his vision in one eye was almost back to normal. He was done playing around.

"You want my blood, Gramps?" he said, his voice low, his patience and control slipping. "Come get it." But this time, he didn't wait for his opponent to strike. He leaped forward, feinting before cutting down and striking low. Bloodscream twisted away, so Logan adjusted and cut upwards, slicing off two of the guy's fingers and sending his sword skittering across the blood-splattered road. Black, foul-smelling sludge spouted from his stumps of pale fingers.

"Rargh!" Bloodscream snarled, but instead of retreating to regroup and attack he cut back in, leaping over him and striking at his back. Logan spun, catching the sword's blade before it could reach him, but feeling a sudden searing of heat on his shoulder as something brushed against him. He snarled, punching back with his claws, and his opponent was forced to duck and roll to keep from getting his head lopped clean off. Logan followed, slicing after him, ready to end this.

Bloodscream moved faster than Logan could react, leaping to his feet and striking back.

Logan didn't have time to dodge, but instead kept his momentum forward, going for keeps. He cut deep into the creature's ribs, but something ripped into his shoulder, digging into him—like fire eating right into his veins—

Cripes! The bastard'd had actually _bitten _him!

He could almost feel the life leaving him—feel the blood rushing out, and his healing factor struggling in vain to replace it. There was a thrill of incredulity mixed with brief panic, then pain, and _rage_.

_Rage. _

Something snapped within him, and it flickered in his eyes—something red, and wild, and Logan was gone.

"Aarrrrrrgh!" He swiped for the vampire's (?) throat, but he pulled back just in time—inhumanly fast. Wolverine snarled, leaping after him, but the creature evaded him, so he only caught cloth as he reeled, feeling drained and weak, but shaking it off.

That didn't matter to the Wolverine. Nothing did.

Bloodscream smiled, his teeth red with Logan's blood. "So sweet—so much power runs through your veins! I have not felt so alive since our last meeting, wild one!" He held his sword with one hand and held out the other—now stained red with Logan's blood. His fingers had grown back.

Damn. The bugger healed even faster than he did.

Oh, well. More fun killing him then, the low-life scumbag.

Wolverine struck out, rolling, striking. Black, thick blood flew through the air, but another deep cut across Logan's ribs poured red. He roared—ripping down and across his enemy, tasting his bitter, foul blood on his tongue, slicing right through his sword. The vampire dropped the useless handle, grabbing onto the side of his neck with both of his hands—driving him to the ground.

Wolverine snarled, digging his claws into Bloodscream's chest and trying to flip him over, to get the upper hand—but he was weakening. His hearing roared like bad static—he was growing faint. And was that Bloodscream—laughing?

_No! _

He wasn't going to die like this! Not like an animal!

He pulled his claws out of the bastard's chest, and Bloodscream let go of his neck, grabbing one of his wrists to keep him from striking, but Logan jerked his knee upwards.

To hell with honorable fighting. This fight had started dirty, and it was going to end dirty.

Bloodscream gasped a choked scream—good. He wasn't sure what this clown was, but he was man enough for an adamantium knee to the family jewels to be felt for a couple generations down the line.

He didn't hesitate, but with the last surge of strength wrenched one arm free and struck, cutting the creature's gasps short.

Bloodsport's head went flying from his shoulders, rolling into a ditch by the road. The body slumped forward, leaking some reeking dark fluid onto Logan's gash-riddled chest. He groaned, pushing the already-cold corpse off him.

"Ugh." Logan staggered to his feet, bleeding from so many different cuts that he wasn't sure which one he should put his hand over. Finally he put his hand over his side, where he could see a long of a silver rib sticking through. "Damn." He took a step forward, almost falling on his face. Damn, he must look like a drunk. He sure as hell sounded like one. He felt something running down his chest and brought a hand up to his neck, where Bloodscream had grabbed him. The skin was raw—burned, and dripping blood like a broken faucet. He jerked his hand away, gritting his teeth. "Gotta—gotta heal, dammit."

He was wavering—dammit, he wasn't going to let himself pass out on the road. The son-of-a-bitch was dead, he just needed to rest for a second, then get back—get back . . .

Where was his bike?

He turned, almost falling over as the world reeled dangerously around him.

It sat just a few feet away, the first tire near torn right in half, and the engine shredded into a mess of metal.

The damn vampire'd killed his bike.

Shit. He hoped Storm'd kept the insurance up-to-date.

His knees hit the concrete, his legs too weak to hold his full weight.

It was times like this that he really felt all that metal weighing him down.

How much extra was it, anyway? A hundred pounds? More . . . ?

He shut his good eye for a second, resting his torn palms on the asphalt as he grit his teeth against the agony of his insides stitching themselves back together.

Dammit. It felt like the bastard'd taken out his liver. Maybe his kidneys, too—and that was a lung he was hearing, wasn't it? Slipped right through his ribcage and sliced it open like Thanksgiving turkey. No wonder he felt like he was swimming—drowning. He was drowning in his own blood. Never really liked swimming all that much, anyway . . . . Bad memories and all . . . .

'Sides, all that metal'd probably just drag him right down to—down . . . .

He spat out a mouthful of blood, trying to keep his breathing steady—trying to keep from blacking out. He'd heal. He already was healing, even if it had to be slower, now. Damn healing factor was taxed to hell already.

Just close his good eye for a second, try not to listen—or feel—his body crawl back together, like needles stitching through his arms, his face, his gut—like knives, cutting him open.

The skin closed up over his ribs, agony ripping over as waves as nerves healed themselves, muscles reconnected, and skin stretched. He must've looked like a backwards cadaver.

His ear twisted into shape, his hearing returning just as he heard a footstep fall behind him, and a hand of fire slap onto the back of his neck, nails digging into his skin and driving him to the ground with inhuman strength, grinding his still-healing skin into the dirt and holding him there, trapped.

"RRRRRRRAAAAAAWWGGG—!" His roar was cut off as Bloodscream's hand ripped across his throat, cutting deep. Blood bubbled over his tongue, but not as much as there should be—he'd lost too much already . . . his healing factor was giving out . . . .

"You'll never learn, Patch!" a dry, blood-flecked voice rasped in his ear. "That doesn't work for me. I can't be killed—not by any weapon forged by a man. And that is all you are—all you _ever_ have been."

Logan gasped wetly against the asphalt. He was shriveling from the inside out—bleeding out. His vision was going oddly pale, not dark . . .

_Well, Storm, darlin'—here's the problem solved for both of us._

* * *

_Then:_

The kid was strangely quiet, though the Wolverine didn't complain and certainly didn't feel a desire to. Remy just sat there, cross-legged and still, until finally he lay down on the dirt next to the shrinking fire and fell asleep—dead tired from the long day's walk. Wolverine flopped down on his side across the fire, enjoying the last of the dying warmth of the flames, and watching the cold, white breath of the kid in the growing chill of the night air.

It took him a long time to fall into a restless sleep.

_He was cold, lying naked, with snakes writhing around him, biting him. He couldn't move, couldn't feel anything but a faint, drifting helplessness. His lungs were heavy—dragged down and saturated, pulling down his heart and sinking into the sludge of his guts as he lay there. _

_Someone was talking to him—calling him . . . . _

_Drifting . . . sinking . . . . _

_No! He couldn't . . . . lose it . . . he couldn't . . . . Lose . . . _

_He swam, and his claws shot from his knuckles. He stared at the metal blades, shocked to stillness as his own blood tainted the green water around him, and he screamed. _

_Fire! There was fire, eating at his lungs, ripping at his bones, cutting him open and freezing him. _

_He was naked—exposed, drawn up and peered at and picked at like some lab rat—stared at, poked at. Pain was no stranger—it never had been, but there was something worse about this—something terrible and horrifying at the helplessness, at how they systematically stripped away his sanity, his humanity, his being. He screamed in agony, howling, and over it all was their dry tones, talking him towards his death and he bled out his own soul. _

"Wolvie! Wolverine! Wake up!"

The Wolverine snapped awake, jerking upright with a choked-off scream. His claws shot from his fist he grabbed his head, gasping at the fire of pain between his temples.

_Oh, God. Oh, God_. There was that voice again—screaming—no, crying now. Empty-sounding—hopeless, like a lost soul. Rage pounded in its wake, sweeping the terror away. _WHAT HAVE THEY DONE TO ME? _

He rose to his feet suddenly, pacing to the edge of the woods—away from the kid. He could hear Gambit's heart beating quickly in his chest, could smell his breath and blood—and it made him angry.

He wanted blood.

"RRRAAAWRRGGG!" he snarled, lashing out at the tree in front of him. It was over a full foot thick, but his claws cut through it effortlessly, sending it crashing to the forest floor with a terrible ripping sound as if the forest's soul was being torn out.

Still not satisfied, he slashed at the next tree, hacking at it in a vicious fury, wanting to hurt something, wanting to kill something—wanting to do something to get rid of the terror and pain in his choking his throat.

When he came to himself he was sitting slumped in on the forest floor, surrounded by slashed and fallen trees, with crushed and shattered branches fallen around him. The ground bore marks of his claws, and even a large stone had three long gashes along its length. The fire's ashes had been scattered—he couldn't remember what had happened, but now they lay smouldering on the river bank under the faint mist of freezing rain that he hadn't noticed until now.

He was cold—ice cold, and his rage was not sated by his mindless destruction.

He lifted his head slowly, the dog tags rattling coldly against his chest, and he felt a colder chill come over him.

Where was the kid?

He looked around, then rose slowly, feeling dread rise in his throat.

He couldn't remember what happened—just . . . red. They were hurting him, and he'd . . . he'd . . .

He looked down at his hands, his damp hair falling over his eyes.

_No_.

He moved forward, sniffing in the dead, cold air.

"Kid?" he called roughly. His voice was hoarse—broken, and it tasted like blood. "Kid!"

He stepped forward, right into something still warm and steaming in the cold air. He stepped back sharply, his breath catching as he noticed the red splattered around him, the skin and bones scattered—

—No. No! He had to think—

It was a squirrel. It didn't even smell like a human, and he should have noticed that—would have noticed it right off, if his lungs hadn't seized up on him like that.

Damn. He didn't realize a squirrel had so much blood in it. His hands looked painted in the damn stuff.

He shook himself, gritting his teeth. "Kid!"

Still no answer.

He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands as he gave a low groan, then wiped his nose and sniffed the air.

He could smell the kid, even if it was mixed and confused after his destruction. Damn it, he'd blacked out like this before, but it wasn't like it mattered. He loved the wild freedom of lashing out—of letting go. But if he had hurt the kid . . . .

He caught a faint trail and started after it, hunched and silent as he moved through the shadows of the still-lingering night. Dawn was not far off, but it was going to be a cold day, especially with the ice-cold rain.

Course, that was good. The rain wiped away their scent and tracks—and men didn't like rain. They'd rather stay in their shelters than come out and hunt. All's the better for him.

The kid stank of fear, but not terror like a cornered deer that was injured and had no chance against the full pack of wolves. Rather, he smelled . . . focused. And something else . . . ?

He slowed, hearing a shift in the undergrowth. He ducked down onto his hands and balls of his feet, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the dark grey clouds above.

There it was—a soft sniffle, loud and clear in his ears, and almost silent shifting of the kid in his hiding place. Wolverine slunk forward until he could see the kid curled up in the slightest overhang of a rock, his coat pulled around him like a safeguard.

He hadn't noticed him yet.

Wolverine felt an easing of the pressure in his chest.

The kid was safe.

Why should he care? Honestly, he shouldn't. He didn't.

After all, why would he care?

He hesitated, listening to the kid's chattering teeth and shivers. He had half a mind just to move on—leave the kid behind. Might be better for the both of them.

He wavered, uncertain, but was surprised when the kid spoke first.

"W-wolverine? Is dat you?"

Wolverine frowned. He was sure he hadn't made a sound, and he was downwind of the kid—even though he'd realized during the day that maybe the kid couldn't smell as well as he could, just like he didn't have his claws. So how'd the kid know he was here?

Maybe it was just a lucky guess.

He didn't move, still torn with the decision whether to leave and go off on his own.

That's how he'd always been after all. It was easier that way.

These last couple days with the kid felt longer than the rest of his existence—the damn kid made him think damn too much. It was simpler without him.

He swallowed, licking the cold rain from his lips.

"Kid?"

The shivering stopped for a second—froze, like the white breath in the air. He saw a faint gleam of red, and realized it was the kid's eyes—looking at him?

"Y-you back, Canuck?"

Back? He hadn't gone anywhere.

But that wasn't what the kid meant, did he?

He crept forward, keeping himself small and unthreatening. The kid didn't move, but stared at him, huddled in his coat. Finally Wolverine stopped, coming to sit a few feet away. Two glowing eyes watched each other in the night, the rain singing throughout the forest the only sound besides their white breath.

"Yeah, you b-b-back," Gambit said, almost a sigh around his chattering teeth. He shifted, shivering as he drew his sopping coat tighter around himself. "Poor devil. Dat some d-d-ream you had. What was it 'bout?"

Wolverine shifted a little closer, frowning at the kid. He was wet—cold, and smelled like misery itself. He didn't look too good either—exhausted, really.

He retreated slowly, then stood, looking around the rain-grey forest warily.

"W-wolverine?"

Wolverine held out a hand. "Stay," he murmured roughly, hoping the kid would listen. Without another word he bolted into the woods and disappeared.

TBC . . .


	16. Walking Dead Man

Thanks for the reviews, people. Life is insane, so sorry about the long break.

**BLACKDEW'S STRATEGY PLANNER (very revised and extra-highly simplified):**

**1. Survive.**

* * *

Chapter 16: Walking Dead Man

* * *

_Now:_

Asphalt dug into the side of Wolverine's face, but it was a distant pain, like a needle driving into a cold-numbed hand—and he felt himself begin to float, disconnected from himself as Bloodscream curled his abnormally long fingers around his neck, digging deeper into his throat and cutting off his choking breath. He couldn't pull away, but only was pushed harder against the ground—ripping afresh his still-raw face wounds.

He was paralyzed—weak. Helpless, and suffocating again. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling. No—he'd felt it often enough, being in the control of someone else.

It made him remember. And remembering made him hate.

He'd sworn it—never again. Never again would he be helpless.

Never again.

He snapped. Inhuman rage slammed back into Bloodscream's face, crushing his nose, smashing it back into his skull. Wolverine punched back, ripping his head from his shoulders again, but this time not stopping. He struck again, and again, and again . . . . Blood flying around him, Bloodscream flailing, then falling still, but his blood still flying about, ripping—hacking . . . .

Wolverine grinned ferally, snarling with beautiful glee of rage as his opponent scattered over the road, strings and splots of black flesh around him.

Pain meant nothing to the beast—only the fight. Only the rage, the destruction. And he reveled it in.

He stopped, standing in the center the now unrecognizable remains of the creature who'd dare challenge him—the Wolverine—and howled with abandon, his own blood mixing with black as it dressed him from head to foot.

Logan came to himself slowly, dripping and reeking. He vaguely remembered dying—yeah, he had been dying, but then the animal in him'd come out and saved him—again.

It'd happened too many times for him to count. It was what made him the best at what he was.

And, dammit, sometimes he hated himself for it.

He looked down, feeling vaguely nauseated at the sight of the completely ripped-up corpse as the world spun around him—though it wasn't at the gore. Maybe the smell, or . . . something. It was hardly even recognizable as a human body, except for maybe that one hand that lay by his right boot. His other foot was bare—must've lost his boot when he ate asphalt . . . or maybe later . . . . he couldn't—remember.

He staggered away from the gore, limping heavily.

He felt washed out—empty. The adrenaline had left him as quickly as it had come, and now he felt like a husk—

—half-corpse himself . . . .

A vampire? Dammit. Damn the bastard to hell.

He'd cut the sucker's head clean off—and the clown'd healed. Damn, even he didn't think he could do that, even if it were possible for somebody to cut off his head.

He glanced back at the mess, and shook his head.

_Heal from that_, he thought; his throat was still regrowing, so speech was out of the question. Staggering, he collapsed next to the bike, watching the pieces of dripping gore just to make sure this freak wouldn't.

If he did, Logan wasn't sure what he'd do. He didn't know if he could kill the bastard again.

But the pieces didn't move, not even by the time Logan's throat had grown back well enough for him to breathe again, and the tendons on the back of his leg were strong enough for him to stand. Still stiff as hell, but good enough.

The clown'd done something to him—sucked his blood right near dry.

He should've been healed by now . . . .

. . . a hell of a lot more healed than this, anyway.

His right eye was still burning, and black as night. He brought up a questing hand and flinched—yep, it was missing, just like he'd thought. Damn—he'd hate to see himself in the mirror right now.

He stood slowly, lifting the bike and using it as a crutch as he pushed it off the road to hide it in the bushes. He'd come back for it later.

With one last glance back at the hacked-up creature from his past, Logan limped forward, baring his teeth at the night. Damn him if he was going to let something like this knock him out, even for a minute.

Hell, if this was what sort of things crawled out of his past, maybe it was best if it all stayed buried.

* * *

_Then:_

He came back for the kid a bit later. It was almost dawn—he could smell of the distant sun heating the low clouds—and almost feel the slightest lightening of the grey clouds. The misting rain had turned into a dusting of snow, and which was now falling easily and coated the world in a powdering of white. The kid'd fallen into a light sleep—so light that he woke up with a start as soon as Wolverine came close. He was shivering, his soaked hair clinging to his face and making him look half his already puppish age.

Wolverine gestured at him to come.

Gambit didn't move, but just sat there, shivering. His lips were faintly blue.

Was that normal? Or was it some "freak" thing? After all, the kid had red and black eyes.

"Kid," he said roughly, then gestured again. The kid shivered, pulling his coat around him with hands stiff from the cold.

"I—Remy don't feel so well, petit." Wolverine glared at him, still waiting for him to get up. "Listen—I don' know how you live out here. It freezin', an' maybe 'cause you fix yourself up so fast help you keep goin'—but Gambit . . . ." He had to stop to cough thickly, shivering against the cold. ". . . . He gon' get himself sick, maybe pneumonia or somethin'. Nawlins' been called a jungle, but I wasn't made for this, homme. Listen—can you . . . get me to a phone?" He stopped, swearing under his breath. "Dammit, Canuck—you prob'ly don' even know what a phone is. They screwed wit your head too bad. An' now I lost out here, an' maybe I'm gonna die. Not by da assassins, but from a lidle ol' cold."

Wolverine frowned. The kid wasn't making any sense. He stank of exhaustion, and smelled wrong.

. . . Sick?

Why in the world was the kid sick?

He'd thrown up the day before—did it have something to do with that?

He didn't know, but he had a bad feeling about the thick sound of the kid's voice and breath, like it was growing difficult for him to draw each breath.

Wolverine moved forward, grabbing the kid by the arm and dragging him to his feet. The kid protested weakly, and wasn't as helpful as he could've been in getting to his feet. But finally he stared, watching Wolverine with tired eyes as his shivering increased from the faint wind his meager shelter had hidden him from. Wolverine pulled him along, not letting go of his arm.

"I d-don' got no ch-choice but to trust you, do I, m-mon ami?" the kid asked weakly, stumbling along behind him. "Don' got no choice at all."

Wolverine didn't even look back at him.

The kid lagged something terrible, though, and after a while the Wolverine gave up snarling at him to hurry up and just picked the kid up and threw him over his shoulder. Sure, the fact that he was almost as tall as he was made carrying him somewhat awkward, but at least he wasn't heavy.

It was the fact that the kid hardly muttered a complaint that worried him.

It took him twenty minutes to reach the cave he'd found in the rocks. He'd had to move farther upwards, and the air was colder, but it was shelter. A river ran close by, and some twenty meters from the cave had cut into the mountain to make a fair-sized cliff to the white waters below.

It offered a good view of the surrounding woods, a nice spot not far from the game trail, and even though the cave stank of a big mountain lion and faded memories of cubs raised and gone. The musty scent was old and dusty—she hadn't been there in some time.

Maybe the winter'd been too much for the old girl.

Logan ducked inside and put the kid on the ground—trying with no awkwardness to, perhaps, be some form of gentle, but the kid's head flopped back slightly against the dirt nonetheless.

Still, he didn't stir.

Wolverine leaned close to him, sniffing close to his face. The kid's breathing was thick and hoarse, and his breath white as snow in the air. He glanced towards the shadowed entrance, where a few scattered snowflakes were landing on the dry leaves and rubbish that had found its way into the cave over the years.

He sat back on his haunches, the wind stirring the long hair around his face, and stared at the kid.

_He was dying_.

What? Why? Frustration made him growl softly, and he stood abruptly, knocking his head on a jutting stone from the cave ceiling. The rock cracked and he snarled, whipping around with a snarl as he popped his claws, but then stopped, his fists sinking as he stared numbly as the now-fractured rock rained down some dust and fragments of stone.

_You're an animal. A killer. You always have been._

He retracted his claws, still growling softly, and already forgetting the pain as it vanished. His eyes fell on the kid, who had curled up on his side, pale as the snow.

_Do something!_

He grabbed his head, snarling at the phantom voice.

What could he do? What was even wrong with him?

_Damn you._

Why should he even care what happened to the kid? Why did it even matter?

_Damn you, you bastard animal! Do something!_

He clenched his fists, his arms rippling as he tensed, ready to fight.

But there was nothing to fight this time, was there?

He bore his teeth, shutting his eyes against the growing pain in his chest—like water trying to drown him. He covered his ears, trying to shut it all out.

What was this? Why was there pain?

Helpless.

Like the dreams. There was nothing to fight there, only pain. Only hollowness, and pain right there, in his chest—and his eyes, and his throat. Pain worse than the blood. Pain worse than hunger, than guns, than cold.

He wanted to pop his claws and bury them right in his own chest—rip his own heart out and watch it die. Watch the pain die.

But why? He didn't want to die . . . . Survival of the fittest . . . .

But why didn't he?

Why did any of this matter? The pain would heal. It always went away.

_You stupid animal. Do something, or you're killing him too._

_An animal . . . ._

_Killer . . . ._

No . . . .

He clenched his jaw and opened his eyes, his eyes wide and black in the darkness of the cave.

He didn't understand.

But damn him if he was going to let this kid die on his watch.

* * *

_Now:_

Logan was able to open the front gate before his legs gave out once and for all. Granted, he'd fallen more than once already, but this time the effort to stand was just too much, so why should he take the trouble?  
Something was wrong. He wasn't healing right—not at all. Blood gurgled in his throat at each painful breath—loud in his ears—too loud, blocking out all other sound.

His whole body burned hot—but not with healing. He knew that feeling, but this felt different. Like fever, like fire—but not cleansing.

He probably could figure out what was going on, but it wasn't worth the effort. Thought was too much—he'd left that behind with his bike.  
He just needed to get home.

He dragged himself along, leaving a trail of scarlet, though not enough. Even with his wounds unhealed, he was running out of blood to leak.

Could he heal without any blood left? Maybe the ol' vampire'd taken it all.

Guess he would find out.

_Scrape, scrape, scrape. _ The sound of his ruined flesh dragging along the rough roadwas grating, but the pain was distant—far away. Far away beyond the sluggish beating of his own heart and his labored breathing—or growling?

Probably both.

It wasn't like it mattered. He'd heal, even from this . . . eventually.

There was the door. Not to far away, just a few more steps. Damn, were those stairs always that steep?

He collapsed at the bottom of them, hardly feeling the agony as rough cement ground into his face as he tried to catch his breath—

—just for a minute—

He couldn't let Storm see him like this . . . .

She'd probably give herself . . .

—a damn heart-attack.

Just rest . . . .

. . . . for a second.

_Heal, dammit! _

The blackness of his right eye seemed to be growing, if anything.

But it was soft . . . warm . . . .

. . . sleep . . . .

That'd . . . work.

He'd just shut his good eye, just for a second . . . .

His vision swam too much to mean anything right now anyway . . .

Let his healing factor take care of the rest . . . .

It always . . . .

. . . . did . . . .

. . . .

. . .

. .

.

.

.

.

"—OGAN!"

Logan jerked awake as Ororo's scream shot into his skull and bounced around like a ricocheting bullet.

One of her hands was on his chest—funny, 'cause he couldn't remember it getting there—but damn it hurt. A cold hand touched his brow—it was blessedly cool and soft, though it stung, and he flinched away. Why did she have to scream so loud? She'd almost given him a heart attack, there—his heart felt like it'd been given a kick-start. "Thank the goddess! Kurt! KURT! KURT! Get Hank on the phone! We need him here _now!_"

Logan growled softly, hoping they'd take the hint to be quiet and go away.

"What is the matter, mein—oh, mein gott! Logan! Is he alive?"

"Shud 'e he' up," Logan muttered, cracking open his eyes—or one eye. Dammit, he'd fallen asleep. But it couldn't have been for long, since he still felt so damned miserable. "Can' yeh see . . . man's tryin' ta sleep?"

Was that his voice? He sounded like a life-time drunk with a smoking problem.

That is, one without a healing power.

He swallowed. His tongue was blood-crusted and swollen—his breath reeked of blood.

"Don't move, Logan. Kurt's calling Hank. We'll get you inside."

"Dammit, 'Ro. 'm—all right." That sounded a little better.

Not like he felt like moving much right then anyway, but just because she was getting all upset he knew it'd be best for both of them if he got his butt off the ground right then.

He began to sit up. The world reeled, but he managed to prop himself up on an elbow and lift his head enough to

look Ororo in the eye.

Still couldn't see out of his right one, though.

She was paler than he'd've thought possible, her eyes wide in horror, from what he could tell—she was floating back and forth, like in a mist. 'Course, he didn't see why she might've called down the clouds, so he must've been seeing things. She looked like she wanted to push him back down, but her eyes scanned his shoulder, his chest—there wasn't an uninjured spot for her to touch.

"'m all righ'. Just . . . catching my breath—"

Storm didn't seem to be listening to him. She pulled off her robe, and if his vision was a bit better he'd've probably enjoyed the sight of Ororo in her thin, small nightgown a bit more. It was good enough, even blurred right now as it was. He smiled faintly as she put it over him.

Maybe he was dying after all . . . .

"You _died_, Logan. Your heart—"

"I was sleepin'," Logan repeated, feeling short of breath and hating himself for it. He swallowed again, focusing on speaking one word at a time. "Look, sometimes . . . sometimes my body jus' does that—shuts itself down while my healing factor does its job. I'll be fine." He began sitting up—slowly, but stubbornly not making another sound. He was surprised when Ororo broke the rules, grabbing his raw shoulder where Bloodscream had bit him and pushing him down.

His vision flashed white and he gasped, his claws shooting from his hands reflexively, but Ororo didn't flinch. "I had to jump-start your heart, Logan," she said, sounding suddenly furious.

"It woulda healed up anyway," he mumbled, gritting his teeth and pushing her hand away from his shoulder in the same swipe that he withdrew his claws, sending fresh rivelets pouring from his knuckles. "Not get the hell offa me."

It was one of the hardest things he could ever remember doing, but fortunately everything felt a bit faint and distant right now. 'Sides, the pain was nothing, and the weakness . . . it would pass, too. He stood up, supporting himself against the wall and trying not to pant too hard, dammit. But he could hear something—damn, that wasn't the hole in his lung, was it? His mouth tasted just plain foul, but luckily even that seemed a bit dull right now. He turned, spitting blood into the bushes by the door.

Storm immediately caught his arm. He flinched, but she didn't let go. Logan was damn glad of it, though he wouldn't say so, because turning like that almost made him fall right down on his face—and right now he figured that if he went down again he wouldn't be able to get up again for the next . . . say, millennia. "Goddess, Logan, your _face._"

"You're—gonna . . . hurt a man's pride with talk . . . like that, d-darlin'," he said, holding the handrail to try and not put as much of his weight on Ororo. Dammit, why was his hand shaking? "'Sides, you should see the other guy." He grimaced. "Or not." He stopped to spit out the blood again that was filling his mouth as he spoke. "He's an even uglier dead son of a bitch than he was when he was alive." Or whatever passed for alive among the undead, if the clown was telling the truth.

And for some strange reason he wasn't exactly disinclined to believe him.

Damn. What sort of freakish life had he lived, if _vampires_ blabbing about _immortals_ seemed like a reasonable thing?

He _wasn't _immortal, was he? Jean'd said his age was impossible to determine, but _immortal . . . _.

That made him feel sick—even beneath the crawling agony of his flesh.

But he was beginning to stitch up—right?

Either that or he was getting worse. He'd heard that people stop feeling after they go far enough along, but he wasn't about to tell Storm that.

If he was so far gone that his healing factor wasn't going to do the trick, it wasn't like anything else would save him. So why should she worry?

He felt blood running down his leg, and the world was beginning to spin a bit more crazily that it had been for the last . . . forever—so he decided he'd get inside.

"Shut up, you stubborn bastard," Storm said, putting an arm around his waist and supporting him. She pushed open the door with one hand, then put it around him as well to support his weight.

Logan hadn't let go of the railing. "I can damn well—"

"Walk?" Storm finished for him. "Fine. Humor me."

She smelled furious. Hell, he didn't think he'd ever smelled her so furious, so he decided it would be wiser to just let her have her way. He didn't feel much like arguing anyway.

"Come on, Logan. Let go."

Oh. He was still holding onto the railing. He looked over, then unpeeled his blood-sticky hands, and almost keeled over. Storm kept him upright, and they limped forward.

He almost face-planted it when his foot got caught on the top step—hell, his feet were dragging like something awful—and then they were in the hall. The place was painfully bright, but he couldn't seem to raise his hand to block it.

Damn. His room was on the far side of the mansion, wasn't it?

Damn his tendencies for isolation at times like this—

But wait—Storm had already turned them into the living room, and somehow he ended up lying down on the sofa there.

Ah. Now that felt a whole lot better.

And it'd gotten a bit darker too—

Oh. His eye's'd closed sometime during the trip. Either that or he'd lost his vision completely.

He'd figure that out later.

Maybe.

It wasn't like it mattered, anyway.

"Hold on, Logan—"

"Ya. Danke, Dr. McCoy. Yes, yes, and please do hurry—"

_. . . . Doctor?_

"Is that Hank?" Storm asked Nightcrawler.

_Doctor._

He felt a chill—shaking him right out of his lovely shocked-system.

"Ya."

Storm snagged the phone from Nightcrawler.

"Hank? Hank, it's Ororo. I need you here as fast as you can—"

Logan sat up and snagged the phone from her hand, grabbing onto the back of the couch to keep from keeling over as blood rushed from his head. "Hank? It's Logan," he said. He figured it sounded good enough, though he couldn't really tell. "Don't bother 'bout comin' down. 'Ro's just goin' into a little shock, that's all—"

"_I _amin shock?" Storm repeated, trying to be overheard. "He is bleeding out all over the floor, Henry! He's not—"

"Logan? You don't sound well—"

"Had a bit of an accident. But you know—I'll heal up."

"But Kurt—"

"They ain't used to what I can do. Gimme a day and I'll be good as new."

"DON"T LISTEN TO HIM, HANK—!"

Logan covered the mouthpiece and gave her a one-eyed glare. "D'ya mind, darlin'? I'm trying' ta talk here." He uncovered the mouthpiece. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll be fine. Yeah, I'll make sure she's okay. All right. Yeah. G'bye, Hank."

He hung up, immediately slumping back against the couch, which creaked under his weight.

"Can . . . someone . . . gimme a beer?"

"Give that phone back, Logan—"

Logan popped a single claw and stuck it through the phone, then flung it carelessly across the room as he covered his good eye with his arm. "Blue says tah . . . have you lie down an' have some water, darlin'.'"

He stood then, grabbing on to the couch to help him along. "I'm goin' to my room. And if anyone comes in b'fore I come out, I'll kill 'em."

"Mein freunde—"

"Can it, priest. I walked all the way here, I can get up the . . . damn stairs," he growled.

"_Logan—"_

He growled and flipped them off without turning around, which may have been a bad idea, seeing that he almost lost his balance on the first step and had to grab the railing with both hands so he didn't fall backwards.

He was going to get to his room—alone—if it killed him.

TBC . . . .

Please review.


	17. Bloodblind

Hello, people! Sorry it's been so long-RL and school especially just got a little out of hand.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed. Any encouragement always helps!

Hope you enjoy.

* * *

Chapter 17: Bloodblind

* * *

_Now:_

Logan's labored breathing faded up the stairway, his unusually heavy steps sounding far too heavy for any man—but, of course, his skeleton was covered with metal, wasn't it? Storm had never thought about how that must feel; the man always seemed quick enough on his feet, and she now wondered how he could walk around with hardly a sound at all. She knew she'd been startled by his silent presence before.

No wonder why he always looked in top condition. Just getting out of bed and walking down to breakfast was the equivalent to a full-body workout.

Had that—both his metal skeleton and his physical shape—saved his life today?

Goddess, the man had _died_, and just minutes later he was insisting that he was just fine.

The sound of his soft growls moved away, and Ororo turned and grabbed the phone next to the couch, dialing a number with shaking hands. The phone was answered immediately.

"Hello?" Beast answered courteously, albeit a bit warily.

"Hank, this is Ororo—"

"Ah, yes. Is Logan there?"

Storm glanced towards the stairway, where blood had left a dark, dripping trail in Logan's wake.

"No. He . . . he's going upstairs."

"Most wonderful. I am currently in transit to the airport. Would you be so kind so as to fill me in with what has happened with our dearest Wolverine?"

"I do not know, Henry. There is no sign of the motorcycle—he looks like he might have . . . dragged himself here."

"What are his injuries?"

No answer.

"Storm?"

Storm swallowed, tasting bile. "Goddess, Hank. He is missing half his face, but . . . I can not tell the full extent of his wounds. I—I do not think he is healing, whatever he says."

"Very well," Beast said, a bit grim but otherwise still as unflappable as ever. "Until I arrive, then, try to keep him calm. If he's rational, get him to drink something. His blood content is probably quite low. And—"

He stopped suddenly—as if something had occurred to him.

"Hank?"

"Pardon me. A thought just occurred to me. Be certain to make sure that if Logan is not in his normal mind . . . it would be the best to observe caution. In any case, I would suggest to keep him away from the children."

Ororo went still. "You think he's dangerous?"

"I don't know," Beast said. "But I think it's better to be safe, don't you agree?"

As if on cue, at his words a scream shook the mansion—and it didn't sound like Syren, either.

* * *

Rogue, Jubilee, and Kitty had talked themselves to silence in the darkness. Logan probably wouldn't believe her if she told him about it, though, Rogue thought. In fact, it probably would be hard for anyone who knew the trio to believe such a thing even possible.

Rogue was sprawled on one of the beds in the room, and Kitty and Jubilee were flopped on the other, with Jubilee's legs propped up on the wall and her head falling off the bed, chewing gum and blowing bubbles absently, though with her eyes half-closed.

How did the girl still have any teeth, with all the cavities she must get?

It was two-thirty in the morning, but it was Saturday, and none of the girls wanted to waste their free evening by getting to sleep too early. It was at midnight that, instead of heading off to bed like Storm expected, Rogue had followed the two younger girls into their shared room to chat. It didn't matter that they were both more than two years younger than her—especially in Kitty's case. Kitty was as much of an X-Man as Rogue was, if not more. After all, Rogue had been depowered during the fight against Phoenix and Magneto, and had only been able to really join up in the training again months later after her powers returned. She'd only been on a handful of missions, and Kitty—despite her quiet and small appearance—was as experienced as any of them. Apparently she'd been one of the first students at the school, and had jumped right into the training along with a butt load of college classes.

At thirteen. Was the girl insane?

It would have made Rogue bitter towards her if Kitty took even the slightest pride in it. But Kitty was just Kitty, and she didn't care the least bit that she was smart enough to put Beast into thoughtful silence (now that was a shocker). It wasn't her fault that she was quick and just plain brilliant, and Rogue wasn't about to complain after she realized Kitty could help her with her Elementary Chemistry class (Why in the world did they make college courses with "Elementary" in the class name? Were they _trying_ to beat down her ego?). She'd probably have flunked the class a hundred times over again already without Kitty's help, and the semester was only half over.

"Well, at least you're still friends," Kitty said, apparently apropos of nothing.

It took Rogue a few seconds to pull herself out of the half-wakeful ennui and translate Jubilee's words into her mind, and another second to remember what she was talking about. That conversation had trailed off about ten minutes earlier.

Rogue made a vague sound of what could probably pass as agreement, not even opening her eyes. "Yeah, ah guess you're righ'," she mumbled, her southern accent even sharper than usual in her relaxed state. "Ah don't really blame him. After all, how could we ever really be more than just friends?" That was probably the most she'd ever be to anyone. She opened her eyes, glancing at the duo across the room.

There was silence. "That sucks," Jubilee opined.

"You'll figure something out," Kitty said drowsily, turning onto her side and putting her arm under her head as a rough pillow. "Something'll work out."

They fell silent again. They'd already thrashed this out at an earlier hour, with Jubilee and Kitty trying to convince Rogue that her relationship with Bobby wasn't beyond saving. But it felt like the candle'd gone out at both ends, and when Bobby'd brought it up, they'd decided to make it a clean break.

Well, at least they'd be able to part as friends. And it wasn't too awkward, really. Mostly.

Jubilee popped another bubble. The room was comfortably silent, except for her chewing, and the deepening of Kitty's breathing as she drifted closer to sleep. Rogue felt herself beginning to drift, and figured it was time to head to her own room.

She rubbed her eyes, trying to find enough energy to drag herself to her own bed, when she noticed Jubilee had stopped chewing her gum.

She took a deep breath, opening her eyes and looking over at Kitty and Jubilee's silhouettes across the dark room. Jubilee was silent—holding her breath—but she turned over and sat up, looking towards the door.

"Whaizzt, Ju'?" Kitty mumbled.

Jubilee's silhouette turned to look at Rogue. "Did you hear that?"

"What?"

"Sh!"

They were silent. The whole mansion was silent—and the comfortable silence suddenly felt vaguely menacing. None of them had forgotten the attack on the mansion, months ago as it was—least of all Jubilee.

After all, she'd been caught by those monsters—the same ones that had done that to Logan. Jubilee didn't like to talk about it, and Rogue couldn't really blame her.

Rogue sat up, trying to wake up as she rubbed her eyes.

"Ah don't—"

"There!"

Kitty sat up now—she'd heard it too. It was soft—almost unheard, but recognizable enough. She looked towards the window, peeking through the blinds. "There aren't any clouds," she said.

But they'd all heard it that time—the sharp crack of lightning.

"Storm," Rogue said, standing.

Kitty and Jubilee immediately stood up behind her. Rogue hesitated, looking at their pajama-clad forms in the shadows. But they were just as experienced as her, if not more.

"All righ'," Rogue said. "We'll stay together. If . . . if anything happens, Kitty, you phase and wake the others. Jubilee can use her fireworks to raise the alarm, and ah'll try to hold them off."

The girls nodded. They'd worked together enough in the Danger Room that they already knew what to do in this situation.

Rogue opened the door and slipped into the shadowed hall. They moved forward, listening for helicopters, for the sound of heavy feet that didn't belong.

Was Logan here? If he was, everything was going to be all right. He took care of them before, and he could do it again.

There was no more lightning, but the mansion seemed even quieter than before. They crept towards the stairs by the front door. They could see the faint glow of the entry-hall's light reflecting down the hall, but all the students' doors were closed. There didn't seem to be anything the matter.

Voices filtered upwards with the light, and they stopped, listening. Rogue relaxed slightly. It didn't sound like they were trying to keep quiet, exactly, but even though she couldn't hear what they were saying she recognized Storm's voice, along with Nightcrawler's obvious accent.

Kitty stood up straighter as she visibly relaxed. Her hair was tussled and her pajamas wrinkled, but she looked fully awake anyway, though now she looked amused rather than alarmed. "Logan probably was just smoking in the kitchen again."

Rogue smirked, remembering clearly that incident. "Ah think we would have heard Logan instead the lightning, though, if that happened."

Even Jubilee cracked a slight smirk at that. "Sounded like a cat with its tail on fire."

"Shh!" Kitty said, despite struggling with some soft snickers herself.

"Ah can go down and figure out what's goin' on. Ya'all just stay here," Rogue said, stepping forward.

"I don't think so. Remember? We stay together, like we practiced," Jubilee insisted, growing serious again.

Kitty nodded. "That's right. Even if we're not under attack, something might be going on. Come on." She took the lead, phasing right through Rogue, who stumbled back with a slight gasp before turning to follow.

"Don't do that, Kitty."

"Sorry," the younger girl said, hardly sounding sorry at all. Her footsteps were silent on the carpet, and still careful as they moved forward slowly. Better safe than sorry, after all.

They stopped again as the light of the entry-hall grew lighter, and they finally made out the words of their professors from down the hall, although it was still a bit muddled.

""I'm . . . my r'm. If anyone . . . I c— . . . kill 'em."

Rogue let out a breath of relief. "That's Logan."

"Mein freunde—"

"Can it . . . . walked . . . way h're . . . can . . . d'mn stairs," Logan's word sounded half-growled, and it was even harder to make out since he seemed to be out of breath. Had he been running? Fighting?

"What—?" Kitty began in a hushed whisper.

"Sh!" Rogue could hear Logan laboring up the stairs—the wood creaking under his weighted footsteps. She could hear Storm's voice downstairs.

Jubilee's eyes narrowed and she tensed, frowning. She took a step backwards. "Guys . . . ."

"Logan'll tell us what's goin' on," Rogue said, making to move forward, but stopped short when Jubilee grabbed her shoulder. Rogue looked back sharply. "What's the matter with you?"

"Something's wrong," Jubilee said, her voice even softer, but urgent. "Let's . . . let's go back to our room."

Rogue rolled her eyes. "Jubes, it's Logan. I know you're scared half-to-death by him, but—"

"I am not—!"

Kitty gasped. "L-logan!"

He had staggered around the corner, and now stood in plain view, though he was barely a hunched silhouette with the dim light behind him. He was leaning heavily against the wall, his face hidden in shadow and by his drooping hair, and as they watched he stumbled and fell to his knees with a soft cry that was more an agonized snarl than something expected from a human being. He wavered his knees, threatening to face-plant into the floor.

Jubilee's grip on Rogue's arm had turned to stone, but there was nothing stopping Kitty from running forward to catch him before he fell.

Wolverine moved faster than Rogue thought possible, silver flashing out, though the sound of his claws unsheathing was covered by his snarl and Kitty's scream as the claws flashing up and across—right through her heart and across her throat. Kitty fell backwards, clutching her chest.

Jubilee jumped forward, her hands raised, and with a shriek balls of light and energy leaped from her fingers, shooting like bottle-rockets right into Logan's face.

He staggered back, blinded, but didn't hesitate to lunge again—or at least intend to. He fell short, cutting through Kitty's body again, but then staggered, his legs collapsing under himself like warm jell-o. He fell to the floor, not immediately rising.

Kitty gave a dry sob and scrambled backwards frantically. Rogue helped her up, and Kitty held onto her, shaking in near-panic and her face as white as a ghost in the newly-returned shadows. She clutched the front of her pajamas, which had been sliced cleanly across her chest.

If she had phased just one second later . . . .

"Oh God." Jubilee said, seeing that for herself. They looked back to see Wolverine slowly rising onto his hands and knees—but slowly—and Rogue saw something dark dripping from his face. The stench of burned flesh made her stomach flop.

Jubilee stepped forward, raising her hand to spark him again, but Rogue grabbed her, pulling her away.

"Don't! He doesn't know what he's doing!"

"He almost killed her!" Jubilee spat, her eyes wide in fear and fury. She twisted out of Rogue's grip, her face contorted in hatred. "Look at him, Rogue! That animal wants nothing but to kill all of us!" She shoved Rogue away, raising her hand as Wolverine finally got onto his hands and lifted his face slowly towards them.

Rogue reached over blindly, flipping on the light. For a millisecond time seemed to freeze.

"Oh my God," she whispered. Kitty gagged and looked away quickly, and Rogue tasted bile, but she couldn't seem to tear her gaze away.

Blood coated Wolverine's face from crown to chin, and trickled from his mouth as he bore blood-stained teeth. His forehead was marred black from Jubilee, and dull smoke drifted from his visage. His one eye glared at them wildly, pain-glazed and fevered, and Rogue thought she could see silver under the streaks of gore on his face and beneath his tattered shirt. His claws were still out, but he seemed unconscious to the fact as he backed up slowly, leaving a bloodied smear where his hand touched the wall.

Jubilee's hands had sunk slightly at the sight, but she raised them again, her jaw tight.

Rogue grabbed her arm again. "Jubilee—"

"Let me go!" Jubilee spat, and Rogue was surprised to see the naked hatred in the light. Sparks shot from her fingers, but didn't get far. Wolverine snarled softly, backing up further against the wall like a cornered cat, his one eye glinting dangerously.

Tired steps padded out almost silently behind them, but the girls didn't notice until the culprit absently reached up and curled a small, paw-like hand into Rogue's pajama-pants' leg, peering around her.

Rogue looked down sharply to see Kylee standing there in her little pink pajamas, holding a stuffed bear, but the expected sleepiness was absent as she stared past them, her short fur going flat as her eyes widened.

"W-wolvie?" she asked, her chin trembling, and her hand sinking from Rogue's pant-leg. Her bear slipped from her other hand unnoticed.

"Kylee, go back to your room," Jubilee snapped, still holding up a hand towards the panting man. Rogue let go of Jubilee's arm and made a grab for her, but the young mutant evaded her easily, darting between their legs and coming to stand in front of them.

Jubilee stepped forward, pale as she reached for the girl, but Logan snarled, and Kylee shrunk away from her.

"Wolvie?"

_BAMF!_

Storm and Nightcrawler appeared in a puff of dark, foul smoke, and Wolverine turned sharply, still on all fours. He snarled, but now backed up, his claws leaving marks in the wood floor as he did so. Smoke rose from his face, as Storm could smell the stink of newly burnt flesh.

"Kylee, back away, slowly," Storm said, tensing into a fighting stance. "Jubilee, Rogue, Kitty, what happened?"

"He totally stabbed Kitty!" Jubilee said shrilly, not lowering her shaking hand. "If she hadn't phased. . . ."

"I—I'm all right . . . ." Kitty started shakily, holding her torn nightgown with both hands.

"Kylee, come here!"

"No!" Kylee cried. "What did you do to Wolvie?" She moved towards him.

"Kylee—!"

Storm reached for the small girl, but suddenly the child hissed and struck out with a small hand, clawing at Ororo's arm and pulling on all fours in front of Logan, like an odd miniature with the ridiculous idea of protecting him. She bore her teeth and growled as Storm jerked her arm back. She clapped her hand over her arm, and winced at the four claw-marks marring her skin.

"Little one," Kurt began, his voice an odd calmness against the sudden tension of the hallway. "Come away. Logan is not himself."

She flattened herself against the floor, hunkering backwards toward the feral man behind her. Wolverine growled softly, trying to stand again, and she turned, edging closer, her ears flat and her eyes wide on him.

Wolverine's feral eyes landed on her and he growled from the darkness of his blood-stained being. Kylee shrunk smaller—but not in fear. The growling slowed, and over it all—they heard it—the sound of soft purring.

Kylee straightened slowly, touching one of the Wolverine's torn and bloodstained arms with a touch light as a feather. He growled softly, but didn't move as Kylee wrapped her arms around him in a protective embrace.

"Kylee—" Rogue whispered softly, fearfully, as if afraid to break some spell.

"Kylee, get over here now!" Jubilee hissed, her voice low in almost petrified horror.

"No," Kylee said, her green eyes narrow as slits, and her teeth baring as she spoke. "You hurt Wolvie. You're just afraid, but all he is is hurt. All he is is scared."

"We know," Storm said, trying for calm. "A bad person hurt him, Kylee, and you need to come to bed so we can help him get better."

"No."

"Kylee."

"No!" the girl repeated loudly, making Wolverine bristle with a growl of his own. Kylee ducked her head, her chin and nose disappearing behind his wild, blood-soaked hair. "Just go away. Jus' leave us alone."

Wolverine leaned forward, his hands on the floor to keep him from toppling over, though he hardly seemed to be avoiding that as it were. He glanced blurrily at them, like an old, tired wolf surveying injured rabbits. He dismissed them, and slowly began to rise, clutching the wall and leaving a blood-stained smear where he touched. Kylee let go of him—still keeping close as he dragged himself to his feet and limped forward, his head bowed as he half-dragged himself to his room.

Nightcrawler put a hand lightly on Storm's arm as she made a move forward.

"Let them go," he said softly.

"Kurt—"

"He will not hurt her."

Ororo looked helplessly at him as they watched the Wolverine and his small companion limp forward slowly. They followed behind, at a safe but still helpless distance, watching their slow journey to Logan's room.

Wolverine finally staggered inside, still growling softly beneath his breath: nearly but not quite drowning out Kylee's continued purring.

He collapsed almost bonelessly (if not for the fact that his weight thudding to the floor shook the bland pictures on his wall) on the carpet, apparently too weak to even get onto his bed. Kylee glanced back at them briefly before curling up beside him, not sleeping but keeping vigil. Her green eyes glowed in the shadows of the room as she watched them.

"How can you know he won't hurt her!" Jubilee demanded, her voice frantic. "We have to get her out of there. He's . . . he's an animal!"

"He is not an animal," Ororo said, turning a fiery glare at her, but any further retort was cut off when Kitty suddenly turned around, falling to her knees as she emptied her stomach, heaving. Rogue wiped tears from her eyes and immediately went to her side, careful to avoid skin contact as she held Kitty's shaking shoulders. Jubilee stepped back, staring with a shocking grim-faced hatred at Logan's dark lump of a silhouette as if expecting him to strike out at any moment.

Storm would be lying if she didn't admit that she was afraid of that very thing herself.

"What happened?" Rogue demanded, her voice cold despite being thick with tears as she looked up at Ororo. "Who did this to him?"

Ororo didn't have an answer.

She just hoped Hank would get here soon.

TBC . . .


	18. Feral

It looks like we got some new readers after last chapter. Welcome!

Thanks for the reviews, everyone. I hope you enjoy this next chapter.

* * *

Chapter 18: Feral

* * *

_Then:_

Fire.

Food.

Water.

Not much, but it was something.

Hopefully enough.

Wolverine crouched in the cave, holding the rough bowl that he'd carved out of a tree quite easily with the help of his claws. Never mind that he had to make three attempts, since he kept on accidentally cutting too deeply and right through the middle, and he near chopped his own finger off on the second (if that were even possible, he had wondered absently at the time). It was filled with melting snow—the cleanest he could find, after the kid'd already drained plenty of bowls-full between his half-wakeful mutterings.

But he was quiet now. That was good, right?

He'd hardly said a thing the night before, after they settled in the cave. With the dawn he'd headed out, and followed his gut to get what he needed. He just hoped it was enough.  
The kid'd been restless all day—not asleep, but caught in-between, like in a dream. With how he sweated and whimpered, Wolverine wondered what he dreamed about.

Did he dream about knives, and pain, and blood? Maybe everyone did.

He didn't want the kid to, though, and he tried to wake him up from them. It worked once or twice, but after a while the kid just stayed asleep—or just mumbled to himself, and Wolverine couldn't figure if he was awake or still sleeping.

Wolverine frowned, then put down the bowl carefully so it wouldn't spill on the uneven floor, and added another log to the fire. Again, wood wasn't something he had a problem finding, or cutting it down so he could use it.

Making the fire had been a little tougher, but just a bit of sniffing had uncovered the kid's lighter, and Wolverine'd been surprised when he got it to work the first time without a problem, though he couldn't say how he knew what to do.

He looked back to the kid, then reached over and pulled the tear of the old, tattered plaid shirt he had once worn. He brushed his fingers over the kid's brow, frowning at the heat there.

Still too hot. He just knew it was . . . somehow.

Damn it.

He took the cloth, wringing out the warmed water before filling it with new, melting snow and placing it carefully over the kid's fevered brow. He hesitated, then adjusted the coat and the remains of the tattered flannel shirt as well.

He stared at the kid, watching the firelight flicker across his pale, sweat-slicked face, despite the fact that he was shivering up a storm. The light had long since faded from the outside, but the sky had cleared, and soon a frozen dawn would begin to whiten the mountains. They would get no more snow for a while, but the night was cold without the clouds. Too cold.

Wolverine grimaced, grabbing some of the cooled-but-cooked meat from where he had set it. He ripped a piece of it off for himself, swallowing it after hardly chewing it.

The kid was getting better, wasn't he?

He threw the bones at the side of the cave, where they flopped to the earth with an unsatisfactory _flup_ onto the bed of leaves.

He was tired. Sick and tired, but not to sleep. His chest still hurt, and his hands were cold, and he didn't know why.

Was he getting sick too?

He stirred the fire, checked the kid to make sure he was covered again, then crawled over and curled up next to him, still staring into the fire.

If he fell asleep, would the kid be dead the next day? Would he be dead like the wolves, like the deer, like the rabbits, like the men? Would the kid freeze, like the wolves—his flesh going stiff, his blood turning to ice?

Wolverine shook his head, doing his best to banish the thoughts.

But between death and his normal nightmares, he didn't think he'd be getting much sleep that night.

* * *

_Now:_

The mansion was quiet—too quiet. Of course, Rogue realized the thought was ridiculous. After all, it was nearing 3 o'clock in the morning. No doubt the mansion was almost always this quiet this time of night. She just wasn't around to hear it.

Or awake, anyway. Same thing.

She let out a breath, letting her chin drop to her chest as she closed her eyes. The hall lights were full-on, but Logan's room gaped darkly like some unwelcoming cave. She could hear his rough breathing, but all she could see was his and Kylee's dark shadows; the green glow of Kylee's eyes had disappeared a good half an hour ago.

She heard quiet footsteps and opened her eyes as Beast hunkered down next to her, Storm standing at his side. Colossus stood behind them in his pajama pants, looking relatively awake as he rubbed his eyes. Rogue did her best not to stare. After all, she'd known Peter for a long enough time. They were like siblings. Still, no harm in looking.

"How is he?" Hank asked, his uncanny blue eyes fixed towards the darkness.

Rogue shrugged, glancing at Jubilee, who sat next to her, rubbing her palms absently like she was itching to spark someone. She looked exhausted.

"Kitty?"

The brown-haired girl stuck her head out from where she had been lurking in the wall, saw them, and the rest of her body followed. She held the front of her torn gown closed. "Still asleep," she said, her voice soft and her eyes not quite meeting theirs. "Or unconscious. I—I can't tell."

"How bad is the bleeding?"

Kitty swallowed, hugging herself. "I don't know. I think it's slowed. It's so dark, though . . . ."

Henry McCoy nodded, standing. He took off his glasses and stuck them in his coat, then stepped towards the room. He took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. He frowned. "You ladies can go to bed now."

"What are you going to do?" Rogue asked.

"From what I gather from that room, I think I have to stand with Ororo's initial prediction. His breathing suggests heavy internal bleeding, and it smells of fresh blood. Logan is not healing."

Rogue stood. "What happened to him?"

"We'll do our best to find out."

"You're moving him," Jubilee said. She stood, looking at Hank with dark eyes. Her short black hair was even more ruffled than usual, contrasting sharply against the unusual paleness of her face. "Why?"

"We can help him in the lab. And even with his state of calm at the moment, I do not want to risk Kylee any further by his proximity. Logan would never intentionally hurt her, but waking up . . . even if he is himself he may react automatically—reflexively." He glanced at Rogue, but no one needed the reminder of what had happened.

"I want to help," Rogue said boldly.

"It's dangerous."

"Logan would do the same for us, no matter what," Rogue argued. Then added softly, "He already has. Even if we went crazy, he'd stick by us."

Jubilee looked like she wanted to say something, but held her tongue.

"A touch from you now could kill him. If he even has any of his healing factor left—" Beast said

"God," Rogue gasped, growing a shade paler. "Someone gave him the cure."

"Serves him right," Jubilee put in.

"Jubilee, think what you're saying," Kitty spoke up, her voice soft and still shaky, but sure. "Did you . . . see him? If he got the cure, he . . . he'll die."

Jubilee didn't reply to that.

Hank looked to Kitty. "Which is why we must move quickly to help him. Now, if you are willing to help, I think I may just have an idea."

* * *

Kitty was holding her breath as she phased through the wall into Logan's room. Of course, that wasn't unusual—she always had to hold her breath when phasing through solids—but she kept holding it as she padded silently towards the dark shapes of the sleeping duo.

She paused to swallow, then slowly bent down, still phased. She could hear the faint, slow rasp of Logan's breath, but her heartbeat sounded loud enough to wake a deaf man, let alone the local feral.

The fact that he couldn't hurt her right now didn't make her feel much better.

Finally out of air, she breathed out, then froze as Kylee shifted, her nose twitching slightly as she rolled back against the unconscious man behind her.

She tried not to look at him, but even in the darkness the pale gleam of wet blood drew kept trying to draw her gaze.

She was running out of air. She had to move.

She leaned forward slowly, unphasing as she took a hold of the girl's shoulder and slowly shifted her away from Wolverine's chest. Kylee, ever the deep sleeper, breathed out the softly rumblings of a purr but didn't wake.

Her pajamas were wet—sticky. With blood, even if it wasn't her own. Kitty closed her eyes, doing her best not to think about that as she eased her away, then phased back out as she lifted Kylee from the floor, taking her with her into intangibility.

Kylee hardly stirred as she was lifted into Kitty's arms. Kitty headed for the door, still treading softly, her heart pounding in her ears.

Beast was hovering there, shifting from foot to foot with as much nervousness that Kitty had ever observed in him. He held out his hands, and Kitty wordlessly handed the little girl in her arms over.

Kylee's nose twitched. Her ear flickered back. Her eyes shot open, and immediately she bolted upright.

"No! WOLVIE!"

She twisted and leaped out of his arms before Beast could get a firm hold of her, but he snatched her right out of the air.

Kylee hissed, a tornado of angry cat cutting into Beast's blue fur. She got to his shoulder and he dragged her down with a curse as she nipped painfully at his ear, but she twisted her head and chomped down hard on Hank's thumb with a feral snarl. Beast jerked back with a snarl of his own, and the noise suddenly doubled in volume from behind him as a deep growl rumbled from the darkness.

_SNIKT!_

"Oh dear," Hank said, freezing with Kylee at arms length, his glasses hanging askew from one ear.

He made a clean leap back as Kitty phased back into the wall, and Wolverine staggered into the light of the hallway, one clawed hand leaning against the doorframe.

He stopped, half-slumped, half crouched, flinching at the brightness of the hall in his one bloodshot eye. Kylee was trying to fight towards him again, but Beast had her arms pinned firmly and was determined not to let her go.

The sounds of her struggle shook the feral man out of his pained shock. He bared his bloodied teeth, and even Beast couldn't hold back a shudder as Wolverine pulled away from the doorway, hunched like a beast, his eye wild as he limped forward, fists clenched and claws ready at his side.

Beast stepped back. "Wolverine. Logan, listen to me. We're just trying to help—"

Wolverine lunged.

Beast was surprised at how quickly the injured man was still able to move, and felt the claws pass within millimeters of his skin as he leaped back. Kylee screamed again as he flipped down the hall, hearing Wolverine close on his tail.

Kitty returned through the wall behind Logan, dragging a large metal man behind her. Colossus didn't stop, but moved out of her grip, and caught Wolverine's leg as he tried to leap.

"I'm sorry, Tovarish," Peter Rasputin said as he grabbed the man from behind, effectively pinning his claws to his side. Wolverine snarled and balked, but Peter could lift a truck without strain, and in his weakened state Wolverine didn't stand a chance of getting loose, no matter how he kicked or twisted.

That didn't keep him from trying. Peter finally put him to the ground, all but sitting on him to keep him from struggling. It was breaking open any wounds that were beginning to heal over, and blood was beginning to seep slowly into the carpet beneath him.

"Well done, Mr. Rasputin," Beast said, still holding a furious little girl. She'd gotten away in the tussle, and his face was now well-scratched as well, but he had her by the scruff of her neck and kept her safely away. She hung there, scrambling to get a glimpse of Logan.

"I can take her," Storm said, coming out of an adjoining room with a pale Jubilee and Rogue. "And you can go to bed, you three. All is in control, now.

"Logan—" Rogue began, starting towards the still man, who now lay all but still, his claws still unsheathed and his teeth bared in a snarl against the floor. Each breath rasped out as a rough, hair-raising growl.

"_To bed, _Rogue," Storm repeated. "You need rest, and more people will only upset him."

"But Storm, ah—"

"He wouldn't want you seeing him like this," Storm said, looking at her sternly. "You know that."

Rogue hesitated, but then nodded reluctantly.

"Good. Now all of you. Get some sleep. We may need your help in the morning."

Kitty looked doubtful. She glanced at Peter, pulled her torn nightgown better closed, and nodded. All three of them headed to their rooms, glancing back more than once as they went.

"Now," Storm said, looking at Beast. "I can take her."

"She's gone into a feral state herself, it seems," Beast observed.

"I was raised on the streets of Cairo," Storm said. "I can handle her."

Hank handed the girl over cautiously, and though she tried to struggle Storm's grip was firm and her manner unyielding. Kylee hissed, but Storm was too quick and caught her so she couldn't add another mark to her scratch from earlier that evening.

"Fascinating," Beast said, watching the feral child for a moment longer, but no longer than that. He turned to Peter. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, if you could take our dear Wolverine to the medlab—"

His request was again rudely interrupted from Kylee, who began growling and struggling in earnest again. She managed to get a hand loose and darted towards Storm's face, but Beast caught her arm.

"Now, Kylee, don't you want Logan well again?" Beast tried reasonably. She just hissed at him and tried to bite him again. He looked at Storm. "We had best take her away from here. Her state is not making his any easier."

Storm's eyes went to Wolverine and she swallowed, then nodded. "You are right," she said. "Take care of him, Hank."

"Of course."

Storm turned and started down the hall as Colossus began rising, keeping a firm grip on Wolverine's arms. The man was growling louder now, and as Storm started carrying Kylee off towards her own bed the little girl snapped back and cried out brokenly:

"W-wolvie!"

Her voice was like new blood. Wolverine's head snapped up, his arm twisting out of Colossus's metal grip. He twisted over, catching his steel nose with his elbow and knocking Peter back a step from surprise.

Wolverine snarled, echoing Kylee's frantic screams as he knocked Colossus back into the wall and nearly through it. Beast jumped forward to defend his comrade, and Wolverine ducked, but not quick enough to dodge the firm kick right to his chest. He fell, gasping blood, and Beast dropped next to him, jabbing a syringe into his chest as he struggled to rise.

"I'm sorry, Wolverine," he said, standing back as the man swung weakly towards him as the drug began taking affect. "I hoped I wouldn't have to do this."

The drug hit him like a wall. He stared for a second, and without his healing factor Wolverine just slumped back gracelessly, his head knocking loudly against the carpet and the wood beneath.

"WOOLVIEEE!" Kylee screamed as Wolverine went limp.

"Kylee, he is just sleeping—"

Kylee's horror split Beast's weak attempt at comfort as her screams vanished behind gasping sobs as she strained towards the unconscious man.

Beast's own fur went back guiltily. "Would you mind trying to put her to bed?" he asked Storm, loud enough to be heard over the girl's tears. "Try to explain what is going on. The poor child is tired and traumatized." He paused, looking quite tired himself. "Piotr, if you would help Wolverine down to the lab—I'm afraid he's even worse off than I predicted."

The young colossus nodded, looking a bit harried himself despite his metal exterior. He bent to lift Wolverine into his metal arms easily, but with surprising gentleness, and together they headed down the stairs to the lab. Kylee's broken sobs faded behind them.

TBC . . .


	19. Healing

Thanks a ton for the reviews! They help to feed the Muses!

* * *

Chapter 19: Healing

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine hardly slept a wink except for once, when he woke up after only a couple minutes to his heart pounding like it was trying to leap out of his chest. He'd jumped to his feet and ran outside the cave, looking around for danger, only to find nothing but the untouched snow; nothing had come by, except for a couple mice, and a bobcat that had quickly moved on after catching his scent. After returning to the cave he curled back up, shivering, and staring at the kid, feeling empty and hungry.

The kid started shifting uneasily near dawn, and Wolverine rose, drawing close and leaning over him as he checked on him. The kid opened his fever-bright eyes and glared at him, the redness of the fire odd against his own red eyes.

He pushed him away with clumsy hands, and Wolverine pulled back quickly away before his hands could touch him.

"Wol," Gambit mumbled, his voice dry as bones. "I a man, you . . . you a man. You stay over dere, and I . . . I sleep here." His head flopped back against the ground, and he curled in on himself as a cough suddenly shook his frame. He heaved, choking on his own breath, until Wolverine was sure he was going to pass out from lack of air. It passed after a seeming eternity, and his body relaxed, sinking as if devoid of all energy. "I . . . sleep . . . here," he trailed off.

Wolverine didn't move for a long minute, and the kid had gone still again. "Kid?"

Silence, except for the slow lengthening of the painful breaths.

"Kid?"

Again, no answer. Another one of his ramblings, then. Wolverine didn't know what to make of them, and he wasn't going to waste his time bothering with them.

He shifted slowly, lifting the bowl, and helped the kid get a drink. He mumbled something that might be a weak thanks before slipping back off to sleep.

Wolverine put the bowl down and felt the kid's forehead, but paused before drawing it away to make sure he was feeling right.

He was slightly cooler. He could feel it. And his shivers were a bit less, weren't they?

He glanced out at the blue-ice morning as he added more wood to the fire.

The kid would be hungry. He was a hungry himself, though he could probably go another day or two before he really started getting too bad. But the kid needed something.

Besides, if he stayed in here any longer he was going to go insane.

_Like you aren't already_.

Wolverine wanted to growl at that, but that was the point—wasn't it? Hearing voices in his head . . . that wasn't normal, was it?

What the hell. Who was he to know what was normal anyway?

_Freak_.

He frowned down at his hands, then clenched them into fists. He checked to make sure the fire was warm and the kid was well covered before he headed out of the cave.

He let himself forget. He let himself stop thinking.

Otherwise it hurt too much.

* * *

He came back with a rabbit. It wasn't a very satisfactory meal—he could have eaten it all himself within a few seconds, if he wanted to—but he ignored his own hunger and just licked the animal blood from his fingers as he brought it back to the cave.

The kid hadn't moved, and was sleeping more peacefully than he had all night. Wolverine slipped inside the cave silently. He stirred up the fire before sticking the rabbit on a stick and letting it roast over the fire, and sat back and stared into the fire, waiting.

He didn't like staying in one place long. Never had. He was starting to get an itch to move on.

But he couldn't. Not yet. A few more days, and the kid would be better, and they'd head out. But where?

It was a foreign idea, actually _going_ someplace. He couldn't remember planning on going anywhere, except the river to drink or to go hunting. Other than that, one acre of woods was as good as the next.

But for some reason that wasn't enough.

His interruptions were cut short with an itch on the back of his neck. He was being watched.

He snapped back to his surroundings and his eyes shot up . . . to catch the kid looking up at him through barely slitted eyes.

"Kid?"

He blinked. Shifted. Gave a low groan, reaching one of his arms out from under his coat and to rub his eyes.

Wolverine rose quickly, fetching the bowl of water and bringing it to him. He crouched over him, holding the bowl awkwardly. Of course, he'd been taking care of the kid when he was asleep, but now that he was awake he wasn't sure what to do.

The kid squinted at the bowl, then looked back at him. He reached for the water.

The kid's arm was shaking as his hand curled around the bowl. He'd spill all of it all over himself if left to himself.

Wolverine pulled the rough bowl away. The kid's arm fell weakly to his side, and Wolverine shifted forward slowly, bringing the bowl to the kid's mouth. He drank greedily, draining the whole thing in seconds, his eyes on Wolverine.

The water gone, Wolverine pulled back into the shadows. He didn't like the kid looking at him.

"T'anks," the kid whispered again, but this time his voice sounded a little stronger.

Wolverine grunted, turning his back to him. He pulled the cooked rabbit from the fire, letting it cool, and glanced back to the kid.

Remy sat up slowly, rubbing his head and squinting around the cave. Finally his gaze settled on Wolverine, and he stared at him, his expression unreadable beneath his exhaustion.

Wolverine ripped off a chunk of scalding meat and looked back, glaring. The kid was still watching.

At least he wasn't shaking too much to feed himself. He occasionally dripped the steaming grizzle and meat onto his coat or chin, but he got through it. Wolverine hankered across the fire, gnawing on the scraps of meat left on the bones. When the food was gone the kid lay down, huddling closer into his coat and the blood-crusted shirt Wolverine had draped over him.

"You know, Wolvie?" Gambit said, his voice weak, but more clear than before. "I think Gambit gonna make it." He lay back down slowly, pulling his coat up to his chin. "I tink I gonna make it."

Wolverine grunted in reply.

He didn't care. Death was a part of life—the truest part he'd ever learned of. Why should he care, after all?

His stomach growled and he grimaced at the scent of the rabbit, which was already fading from the bare bones.

Stupid kid. Had to go and get sick. Had to eat all his food, too. He'd been nothing but trouble the whole while.

He headed out of the cave, intent on getting some food for himself. Some paces from the cave he realized he felt something was wrong with his face.

What the hell—? He was . . . .

He was . . . smiling? Maybe not a full-out grin, but he could feel it there—a slight, strange pulling at his lips.

He quickly changed it back to a scowl.

Damn it. He really didn't care.

Not one damn bit.

* * *

_Now:_

Logan was out like a light the whole trip to the basement. Peter laid him carefully on the table as per Hanks directions, and stood back, still looking sleepy, but not about to leave when there was a chance of trouble. Beast moved forward and with an expert eye and hand began checking his vitals—listening to his heart and breathing, and prying open Logan's good eye to check for dilation. By his expression his diagnosis was not a good one.

"Could you get the box from the bottom right drawer in my desk, Peter? Thank you."

Colossus returned a minute later to find Hank loading a tray with a pile of antiseptics and bandages, while at the same time trying to prep an IV. He directed Peter to the table while he worked, who pulled out the thick leather straps and carefully attached them to the bed.

Peter couldn't keep his eyes away from the wreck of Wolverine's face. He'd seen as bad before already—not that he'd tell Storm that. But once he and Logan had taken the Blackbird on a mission and used their now-favorite maneuver where he threw him towards their target: the fastball special. Logan'd ended up with a face-full of acid from the crazy mutant they'd been sent to confront, and by the time Logan'd knocked him unconscious most of his face had been eaten clean away, even the surface of his eyes.

The memory still made Colossus sick, but Logan'd been right—he'd healed, and right in front of him too.

He could see he wasn't healing this time, though. Not like usual, at least.

"Where did you get these, tovarish?" Peter asked softly, finishing securing the last restraint from the box. He hoped they would keep Wolverine from hurting himself (or others) more when he woke up. He wasn't sure how Logan had done it, but Peter's arm was actually a bit sore where the feral man and wrenched out of his grasp.

Beast didn't look up from hooking Logan up to uncountably many wires.

"A safety precaution," he said, his voice almost absurdly calm. "Logan is hardly the only feral who has graced our halls over the years."

Logan groaned softly—more of a twitch of breath rather than an actual sound, but Beast perked up at it, glancing at his face before proceeding to inspect his wounds carefully.

"He has not had the cure," Beast murmured distractedly. "He shouldn't wake up for another four hours at least from the drug alone, let alone his injuries."

Logan flinched, but was unable to move far with the restraints, and gave a low whimper that was cut off. His arms tensed unconsciously, testing the bonds that held him down.

"Logan?" Beast queried softly. The prone feral flinched, and his bloodshot eye shot open, darting around the room. A machine to the right started beating frantically with his increased heartbeat.

"Logan, it's all right. Can you hear me?"

It took Logan a second, but recognition dawned slowly in his pain-misted eye. His heartbeat slowed a hair, but the machine still beeped erratically.

"H'nk?" he gruffed. His voice was rough and dry, and weak. He probably would be shouting it if he could. "L—l'mme go." He could barely make out the slurred words.

"You were badly hurt, Logan. Your healing factor is not up to its normal pace. We're helping you."

Logan stared at him blankly through half-closed lids, trying to remember, and still pulling at the restraints without realizing it.

Beast decided to give him some time, and made to give him his IV. Startled by the sudden movement, Logan recoiled back with a surprising snarl, considering his state. He couldn't even hold up his head, but his fists clenched.

_SNIKT!_

Blood sprayed across the table as his claws shot out of his knuckles. The skin still hadn't healed over from the last time, and blood streamed between his fingers as he twisted in vain to cut the bonds that held him.

Hank straightened, still holding the needle. "Now—"

"I—don't—need—this!" he gritted through bared teeth. His words were emphasized by the frantic beeping of the heart monitor. Sweat glistened on his skin, streaking with the smears of blood. "Let me go." He strained against the bonds.

"Logan—"

Logan growled, his arms cording as he twisted, trying to get an angle with his claws to cut himself free to no avail. Peter stepped forward, pale, but looking ready to armor up and help.

Logan was shaking in earnest now—if not for him gritting his teeth they would probably be chattering. Just as suddenly as his rage had risen he fell back, limp and gasping for air.

Beast stepped forward slowly, wary that he might go feral again, but Logan had shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He spoke again, shaking from the bloodloss and pain. "Beast—I'll heal. Y'know . . . I'll heal, and if not there's nuthin' you can do to help me." He choked and grimaced—his teeth were red with blood. "Lemme go."

"Logan—"

"Dammit, Hank," he rumbled softly, his pain-hazed eye fixed on him as his muscles coiled, his fists clenching unconsciously. His shaking was growing worse, but not from pain or shock, there was something else. Something Beast could smell—something sharp, putrid . . . .

Terror. Near-panic terror.

Logan, the fearless, unbeatable Wolverine, was afraid. He'd never admit it, but waking up, helpless and tied down in a medical lab, had scared him half to death. Scared almost enough to go back into his feral state. He could see the fight there, see the animal struggling to break free again.

Free. Hank had felt that urge before. Maybe not as much as the Wolverine—maybe more. He didn't know. But he could understand.

"Can rest . . . in m'room," Logan said, clearly struggling with consciousness, but still determined to have his way. "'ll heal. Alw'ys do."

"You can go to bed now, Peter," Hank said, apparently ignoring his patient's words as he moved forward to continue cleaning Logan's wounds. He winced as he saw silver bone beneath sliced and lacerated flesh. Whoever—or _what_ever—had been able to do this to the Wolverine? The young X-Man nodded, taking one last glance at Logan, and headed out the door, looking ill. Hank was pretty sure he wouldn't be dreaming well that night.

Logan flinched away from the blue doctor, snarling again. "'m not a damn kid. Lemme go or'm outta here fer good. I mean it, Hank."

"If you die—" Beast hedged, but he'd already pulled back again. As a doctor he was sworn to help, and as an associate—if not some odd sort of friend—he felt responsible for the man. But he knew he couldn't keep Wolverine down here. The animal in him understood.

"Won't," Logan said weakly, cutting him off. "Jus'—I needa get back to my room, and—and—" He stopped, his bloodied and torn brow furrowing in confusion as vague, shadowed outlines of memories slipped by him. Beast was unbinding him, so he puts a hand to his head, but flinched and barely kept from gasping out loud as he brushed his hamburgered face. He pulled it away, taking another deep breath.

Beast would never let him go unless he was calm.  
Damn, he wanted to kill something. Now. But first—

"Kylee? Where's Kylee?" he rasped.

"With Storm."

Logan nodded wearily, as if it used too much energy just to lift his head. But immediately he sat up, his claws clicking against the metal table-top and unconsciously leaving marks that could never be scrubbed away on the polished surface. "Th'nks," he muttered, withdrawing his claws. Beast went to his side.

"I will take you upstairs, but you will still receive medical care," he said, uncompromising on this matter. "Storm would put up quite a shocking display if she found I had just let you go, pun intended."

Logan didn't even hear him. Three steps away from the table his legs gave out, and Beast caught him.

"Completely unconscious," Beast announced to the empty room. This should make things easier.

He looked back at the medical table and his instruments, torn. He shook his head to himself, then simply picked Logan up and carried him out of the lab towards the man's room.

TBC . . .


	20. Raw

Okay. This is a longer chapter, and to any or all that are getting impatient with things, I have to say . . . I have a very good sketch of the next few chapters, and some crazy stuff is going to be going on very soon (good crazy, I think, and I hope you'll agree ;) ).

So please review. The reason this chapter popped out so quickly was because of the reviews from the last chapter. Seriously, just a single line would help me, just to know if you're liking it or not (though, of course, the longer the better ;) )

* * *

Chapter 20: Raw

* * *

_Then:_

They were out of meat. The scrawny rabbit he'd caught earlier before wouldn't have lasted him a five minutes on his own. He was hungry, and the kid hadn't eaten much, but he should have food just in case, for when the kid woke up.

Besides, if he was stuck in that cave any longer Wolverine was going to go crazy.

The kid was still asleep, but restfully now, and Wolverine headed out with the pain in his chest eased, as he had well expected it to. It faded almost to nothing as he ran out into the woods, the few inches of melting snow slipping between his toes and the scents of the mountains filling his senses with a second sight. It was so much easier, out here. Just to let go and forget.

To hunt.

Prey had come along, but had scented his and the kid's smell and had left long ago. Wolverine put his head down and moved outwards, holding the tatters of the remnants of his stolen pants up as he slunk, silent as a puma.

He jumped down a small incline, catching a scent even as he spotted the light prints on the snow. He paused, taking its scent in deeply. The doe had been here not long before—ten minutes at most. He flashed his teeth in a grin and moved after it.

The chase was on.

* * *

_I can't remember all the times I've died. Not just almost died—but actually died: like bullet-spittin', heart-stopped, gut-ripped-out dead._

_Storm freaked like it was something to worry about. Scares lots of people, dyin'. Never been able to figure out why, though. Suppose 'cause they figure it's coming, no matter what they do._

_Sometimes I wish I knew that for myself, but I never could. Never can._

_Maybe they think it's like losin' someone else. That's bad enough to understand. Worse than just dyin', in my book. Far worse._

_It's not always the same, coming back. Sometimes nice as anything, like wakin' up after the most peaceful sleep you can think of. Sometimes hurts like hell—yeah, usually hurts like hell—since dyin' usually ain't a pretty thing, and healin' ain't either._

_But the worst is sometimes just not bein' able to remember what happened. Just wakin' up, and . . . nothin'. Maybe some pain, usually lots of blood, maybe some bodies . . . but beyond that, nothin'._

_It's happened more than once—and more often than just when I die. More than after waking up in the snow for the first time, more times than just waking up in the forest with nothing but ruin around me._

_What's it like not knowing yourself? Not being able to trust yourself, because you don't know who you are—what you are? Not knowin' the devil that's crawling beneath your own skin?_

_Happens too much. Too often. And there's nothing worse than not knowing, when you wake up—cut to the bone with confusion and damn pain._

_It's what always comes to the wicked after they die, like 'Crawler says._

_It's Hell._

* * *

_Now:_

Logan awoke slowly from a nightmare—which was unusual even to the echoes of agonizing pain resonating through his bones. But this time they didn't fade with the nightmare. He didn't move—he felt disconnected, distant. The dream was slipping away faster than he could hope to hold on, leaving him cold and with a taste of blood in his mouth.

Wait. Something about some psycho who tried to drink his blood. Ripped him up pretty good too, before he got the bastard for good.

But that hadn't been a dream, had it?

He didn't move, still floating in some odd post-healing bliss mixed with remaining lingering pain. An odd but not altogether unpleasant low sound vibrated in his ears. In fact, it was threatening to put him right back to sleep. But an uncomfortable growl from his stomach reminded him of more important needs than sleep, waking him enough so in his half-conscious state he realized that the sound was someone was humming.

He tried opening his eyes, and on the second attempt succeeded with opening one to see Kylee curled up so close to his bandaged chest that she was practically sitting on him.

"Damn!"

He started sitting up quickly, but then stopped shock-still and fell back with a gasp of pain. He winced as sunlight cut into his eye and he raised a heavily bandaged arm to shade his eyes and swore again.

"Dammit, kid, I've told you a million times not to get near me when I'm sleeping," he snapped.

Kylee ducked her head at the anger in his tone. "But Wolvie's sick. I was sick once, and Ms. Jeannie always said that it was good to be sick every now and 'gin, 'cause then everyone loves you and makes you feel better." She looked at him, then wiped a hand across her soft-furred face as he forced himself up onto his elbows. "'Sides, you weren't asleep. Beast said you were uncon-sceence," she said, sitting down next to him again and settling her front small hands lightly on his bandaged stomach.

The little hairball was so trusting, innocent . . . and he could have killed her, just like that. The inside of his wrists and his knuckles ached with remaining pain from his claws coming out. Had he just almost popped his claws at her? Or was he still healing from . . . whenever it was?

He slumped back again, his whole being seeming to ache, and he wasn't sure what was real or what was the usual leftover pangs from phantom wounds since healed. He settled his head against the pillow which had been placed behind his head (Storm's doing? Hell, what was he thinking? It was more likely Beast.) and peered out at Kylee through a squinted eye. The other one had a heavy weight on it—bandaged, Logan realized. He was starting to feel hot and claustrophobic from the weight of all the bandages.

"How long I been out?" he rumbled. His throat hurt, and he sounded awful. Guess that came with getting your throat cut by a crazy ninja vampire.

"You've been _un-con-sceence_ all day and all night," Kylee near purred, still obviously pleased with herself and her new word. She settled down, resting her chin on her paws and gazing up at him.

"That long?" It looked well into the afternoon outside. That sucker'd really taken it out of him. Literally.

He rose, and fell back again, gasping and clutching his stomach at the sharp pain that cut through his gut.

He couldn't remember a particular wound to his slicing across his ribs and into his stomach, but that wasn't saying much.

"Dr. Hank said you had to sleep," Kylee warned.

"Dr. Hank can—" Logan cut off with a growl. Wait. He remembered . . . something vague. Hank'd brought him back here. Even if Logan hadn't really needed his help in the first place, that meant something. "It doesn't matter what he says."

He rose again—but more slowly this time—causing Kylee to slide off him again where she sat, watching him openly as he swung his legs over the bed and stood. Well, dragged himself to his feet with the liberal help of the bedpost.

His legs were weak, and he felt dizzy—lightheaded, while at the same time his feet felt ready to sink right through the floor. Biting off another curse, he popped his claws and sliced through the bandages.

Probably not the smartest thing to do, but Wolverine wasn't one to care.

He withdrew his claws and wiped away the driblets of blood from the slow-healing wounds before chucking the dark and sticky linens into his already-over-flowing garbage. He limped to the bathroom, feeling feverish but irritated.

A day and a half, almost. He should've been healed hours ago. A day ago. More than that, even.

But seeing himself in the mirror helped finish the mental checklist he had already marked off.

His chest was crisscrossed with pale white scars, and his whole right side was scarred a deep angry red where he'd eaten asphalt. His stomach was mottled with deep bruises from internal wounds not yet healed.

But most prominent were the handmarks—still sharp, burning red and perfectly defined over his healing neck and face.

Oh, and his eye was still missing.

Great.

Logan washed his face before washing off his chest and arms of scum and blood. He drank a couple handfuls of tapwater to try and wash out the taste of copper.

He'd always hated the taste of his own blood.

He stopped to stare at himself for a moment once he was done. Water had settled in the scars riddling his face and a few drops had settled into the empty eye socket, and though his hair was damp it was nonetheless was even wilder than usual. His remaining eye was bloodshot, his face pale.

He didn't even know himself.

But then again, that wasn't a very unusual feeling.

He was pulling on a t-shirt as he limped back into the room.

He hoped his eye would grow back. He'd never actually had it ripped clean out before. Popped, shot, smeared, slashed—sure, but not torn clean out. Not in his memory, anyway.

Kylee leaped down from the bed. "Where're you goin'?" she asked, apparently unphased by his appearance, except for an unusual amount of bossy concern entering into her voice.

"Gotta get something to eat and drink," Logan said. _And preferably a lot of the latter_. He couldn't remember many other times he'd been ripped up this bad, and most the times he had he'd always been starving after he healed up. His body took care of itself—he wondered if even starvation could kill it—but food did seem to help speed things up.

So he'd head to the kitchen. He'd—

Damn, his head hurt.

He'd head on down there, looking half-dead, and scare the kids to death. Rogue'd probably have a heart-attack.

He sat on the end of the bed, staring at the door. He saw the bloodied handprints on the door frame, and followed the trail of blood to the floor, and to the rug, which was stained black and stank of old blood. No one had even tried to clean it up yet.

How the hell?

He stood again, stepping carefully to the doorway. He pulled it open, sticking his head out and sniffing. It made his eye water; the hallway reeked of disinfectant and bleach. The long rug that had run down the hall was gone.

He'd dragged himself up here?

He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, and then his eyes fell on the deep, thin grooves in the wooden floor, and marring the walls. He'd recognize his claw-marks anywhere.

_What the hell had happened?_

"Kylee!" Logan snapped, pulling his head back inside. His voice still sounded about two octaves lower than usual—more of a growl than a voice, but it would have to do. "What happened when I got here?"

Kylee was still sitting on the bed, watching him. "You should come back to bed, Wolvie."

"Dammit, kid! Was anyone hurt?"

She stared guilelessly at him, then bowed her head and spoke softly. "You were," she said.

Logan swore again, stepping back and closing the door. He sank back onto the bed, ignoring the slicings of pain from the motion. It'd go away.

His head felt like it was packed with cotton.

"Wolvie?"

Kylee had crawled forward to sit by him, and reached out to touch his arm. He pulled away sharply.

He couldn't remember.

God, sometimes he really hated his life.

"How'd I get up here?"

Kylee looked a little confused. "You don't remember?"

"Just answer the question, kid."

"You walked," she said, then frowned, touching his arm again with a feather-light touch. "You were hurt," she repeated softly.

There was no getting anything from the kid. But for some reason he couldn't manage to get angry at her.

He growled softly and stood painfully again, heading for the door. Kylee met him, grabbing a bunch of his shirt in her small hand.

He didn't even waste the time trying to pry her off him, but just limped down the hall, one arm around his stomach.

The reek of cleaner was thick all the way down the hall and down the stairs. He wrinkled his nose, gripping the railing as he headed down into the entryway.

Suddenly Kitty trotted around the corner and nearly ran into him. She gasped and reeled back, dropping the bottle of bleach she had been carrying and the armful of rags. The air reeked of fear, but it immediately decreased as the young mutant phased.

Logan's hand, which had automatically reached out to help her catch her balance, swept through her arm uselessly.

Kitty fell backwards and right through the floor.

Logan stared at the floorboards, and then swore loudly.

"Kitty!"

Damn. Of course she could go through walls and such, but he'd never seen her drop through the damn floor before!

What if she kept falling down and couldn't get herself to stop?

"Logan!" Rogue gasped, coming running from where she had been scrubbing in the sitting room. "Wha's wrong?"

Logan looked up at Rogue, who stopped stand-still. "Pryde," he said, gesturing to the floor.

"Oh," Rogue said. She smiled, though it faltered slightly. "Don' worry. She used to do that all the time, before she learned how to really use her powers. You probably just startled the girl."

"Like hell I did," Logan said, running a hand through his hair. "Kid looked like she'd seen a ghost."

That weak smile again—faltering, wide-eyed. Hell, Rogue looked like she'd seen a ghost too. Kept staring at his face—maybe at his empty eye socket. Maybe at the hand-marks. What the hell had that freak been, anyway?

The smile vanished completely, and pure concern took its place. "Are you all righ', Logan?" Rogue asked, stepping forward. "You should probably still be in bed. Beast said—"

"I'm up and healin'. That's enough to say I don't care what Beast said."

"_Logan_—" Rogue said, frustration and worry clear in her scent. She shook the rag she held at him, and Logan paused before grabbing her gloved wrist and looking at the blood-and-bleach soaked rag.

"All righ'," he said, his voice rumbling more than usual. He looked at Rogue with a narrowed eye, and her own eyes widened. So he looked and sounded bad enough to even scare Rogue now, did he? Good. He let go of her arm and stepped back. "What the hell happened?" he demanded.

"You don't—?" The question was quickly cut off and Rogue snapped her mouth shut. "Nothin'."

"Dammit, Rogue!" Logan snapped. "The bleach ain't for nothin', this whole place stinks like a morgue, Kitty smells scared to death, and you ain't doin' much better."

"Ah ain't afraid," Rogue said, looking at him boldly. If her gaze hadn't wandered to his missing eye it might have had a chance to convince him.

"Then what're you hidin'?"

"Absolutely nothin'," she replied, folding her arms, her eyes flashing. "Why don't you remember?"

"Damn if I know," Logan said, running a hand through his hair again.

"Well, it's all right. Probably just bloodloss, concussion, or somethin'. Beast'll figure it out. Just . . . how about you go shower, or somethin'?"

So she can finish covering up, or warn the whole place? Not bloody likely.

"I want answers first." And food. Besides, startled people were unbalanced—easier to shake. Easier to get them to talk.

"Fine," Rogue said. "Though none of us know the whole story. Beast found your bike jus' five miles out on a side road, all cut up. Your blood was everywhere, and something else—"

"Yeah, yeah," Logan waved his hand. He remembered that part. Remembered enough, anyway. "After all that."

"You dragged yourself here an' died on the front stairs," she said shortly. She stopped, glaring at him as if he'd done it on purpose.

"Then what?"

Rogue stared. "'Then what?' Jus' like that?"

Logan shrugged. "Well, it's obviously not the end."

"Wolvie," Kylee said, tugging on his pant leg. Logan shushed her, not looking away from Rogue.

"It coulda been," Rogue said sharply. "Beast said he didn't know how you got so far. Twenty percent blood content, Logan. That's _all _you had when Hank got here."

Logan raised an eyebrow, waiting for her point. It was obviously the wrong reaction, because Rogue turned around, throwing up her hands.

"Ah can't deal with this right now. You were _dead_, you big lunkhead, and now you come stomping down like everythin's all right—"

"Wol-_vie_," Kylee insisted. Logan ignored her.

"It is. I'm healin', and if this is all about the cleanup work, then Storm shoulda hired out, or somethin'. . . ."

Rogue had turned on him again, this time her eyes flaring with anger. "You think this all's about a little cleanup? You were _dead!_ And then we all thought you'd die again, and . . . how d'ya think w'all felt, not knowin' if you'd had the cure, or if you'd die for good, or . . . or . . . ." A tear ran down her face, and though it was quickly brushed away, Logan felt frozen in his tracks. "You've never been like that, Logan. You've never been like that."

Crap. He'd been barking up the wrong tree here.

Rogue had turned away again, now hugging herself. Logan didn't move for a second, then stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder. "Darlin' . . . ."

She turned suddenly, hugging him tight. Logan stiffened and stifled a gasp and curse, but didn't push her away. "You idiot," she muttered. "You pull somethin' like this again and ah'll make ya wish you _were_ dead."

When she finally let go he nodded gruffly, not willing to admit how much her tight hug had hurt. He folded his arms.

"You go on back t'your room, now," Rogue said, wiping her eyes again.

Logan shook his head, looking away from her. Something bad had happened—something beyond him coming back with a few scratches.

And he thought he knew what it was.

He looked away from her. "Where's Storm?" he asked, his voice soft and even more growly for it.

"Out front," Rogue said. Logan glanced towards the door. Rain was pouring from the sky, and Logan figured she was doing her own kind of cleaning out there. Trying to wash away all the blood. "But Logan—"

Logan didn't want for her to finish. He turned and walked towards the kitchen, Kylee still trailing behind him.

If he ignored her, maybe she'd leave him alone.

Classes must've gotten out already. He could hear the students outside (in the back, where the sky was blue and quite clear), and in the game room a game of pool was in full swing. On a normal day Logan might take some time off to show the kids a few tricks, but this time he didn't even glance inside as he passed by.

He felt stares enough—heard the gasps of surprise and fear, and the whispers. He didn't bother with them, but headed straight into the kitchen, which was all but deserted. Bobby Drake froze in the middle of taking a bite of ice cream (it slid from his spoon back into his bowl, but he didn't even seem to notice), and Warren Worthington straightened in surprise, his wings flaring slightly.

"L-logan," Bobby choked. "Kylee, what—"

Logan didn't even glance at him. He could smell the stink of wariness, even fear, and he hated it.

It confirmed his suspicions.

He needed to get out of here.

He opened the fridge and grabbed a soda and a box of half a cold and grease-stiffened pizza. He began snarfing them down, and Kylee let go of her vice grip, but kept a hand wrapped in his t-shirt like he was a dog prone to wandering.

"Kylee, is everything all right?" Warren asked hesitantly.

Kylee nodded factually. "He missed breakfast, and lunch, and dinner, and breakfast again," she said, as if that explained everything.

The pizza and soda weren't near enough. He turned back to the fridge, finding a bowl of half-eaten pasta and helping himself to it.

He was already feeling physically better. His head was clearing up, and the pain was taking its place where it belonged.

Bobby and Warren didn't move, but stayed still, watching him, though both looked a bit green. Probably had looked at his face.

Kylee stayed right at his side as he emptied the fridge of all immediate edibles—including a full gallon of milk and a raw marinating steak. He only paused to pull the meat out of the reach of Kylee's reaching hand.

"You'll get sick," he snapped.

"You are sick," she bounced back. "Ms. Jeannie said it needs to be cooked."

Logan did _not _want to think about Jean right now. Another person who had trusted him. But she hadn't been so lucky to walk away.

The food had settled into his stomach, and he didn't feel like eating anymore. He chucked the rest of the raw meat into the sink and slammed the fridge closed.

He smelled him before he turned back around. Good. Just who he was looking for.

"Logan!"

He turned sharply, his lip curling to a snarl. "And what the hell were you thinking?"

Beast stopped dead-still in the doorway. "What is it that you mean?" Beast looked a bit worse for the wear, and as he stood there he took off his glasses and cleaned them slowly on a cloth from his pocket. There was a scratch on the right lens. "I have been looking for you, Logan. You are not well enough to be walking about already."

"I doubt I was that hard to find." Logan reached down, catching Kylee's wrist without even having to try, and pulled her off him. "I'm leavin'."

"What—?"

"I know what happened, Hank. This proves it ain't safe when I'm here."

"On the contrary," Beast replied, always the voice of reason. "This actually went farther towards supporting the safety of the children than any action we have thus far observed. You have always feared loosing your feral side around the children. Now it has happened, and no one was hurt."

"Sheer damn luck."

"Again, I disagree. Those you came across performed admirably, and you were contained as we thought needed. Yet your feral side is not evil or bloodthirsty, Logan. You were simply afraid, hurt, and confused. Striking out was purely defensive."

Logan stared blankly back at him. He thought that maybe Beast'd understood, being part feral. But this was more than just being feral, wasn't it? Something else was wrong with him.

Had Beast ever felt the bloodwrath? The berserker rage, building in his bones and wanting nothing more but to kill, and rip, and shred, and to howl in the terrible, agonizing glory of blood?

"Hank? Did you find him?"

"Just where you thought he would be, Ororo," Beast replied.

Storm ran into the room, looking frazzled and exhausted, but relieved. She smiled and came forward. "I told you he would not stay in bed, Hank." She stopped at Logan's unyielding stare. "What's wrong?"

Logan shook his head and tried to walk past them, but Storm put a hand on his shoulder—right over where Bloodscream had grabbed him. He pushed her back, swearing.

"What the hell's wrong with you people?" Rogue had followed him, and now was watching him in concern. Kitty stood some paces behind her, looking a bit pale, but otherwise composed. If anything, she looked a bit sheepish from her earlier stunt.

"Logan, what—" Storm tried again.

"You let me in the damn house," he turned sharply to confront her. "I coulda killed any of you—all of you. Hell, Beast, when I woke up, _this furball_ was sitting right next to me!"

"She wouldn't leave your side," Rogue said.

"I lost it, and you let her get near me? What the hell were you thinking?"

"She went near feral herself, Logan. And you didn't hurt her at all; indeed, it seemed as if your feral side was determined to _protect_ her—"

"I don't give a damn!" he snarled. Even Kylee backed up, her fur slicked back and her eyes wide.

_I killed Jeannie, and you still don't understand_.

These fools were as bad as Chuck. Could have been killed by their own just like he did, because he thought she was in control.

He needed to get out of here. Now.

He stepped forward, but Rogue moved with him, standing right in his way. "You try to leave and ah'll touch you," she said plainly. Not the best of threats from the average person, but it was enough here. "We _need _you, Logan. So you coulda killed one of us—but you _didn't_. Dozens of mutants and normals died because Professor Xavier was controlled by Stryker. Ah almost killed off enough folks to toss down all the world's governments. It wasn't our fault. You said so yourself."

"It wasn't your fault."

"And this wasn't yours," Rogue declared, drawing her full height. Logan realized that she'd passed him up sometime since he'd met her. "Ah mean it, Logan." Seeing his unyielding look, but shying away from looking directly at his missing eye, she tried again. "You try to leave and you'll be back in bed for a week. Besides, if you really feel that all guilty, you gotta stay on and make it up to us."

The kid really was desperate.

"Really, Mr. Logan," Kitty said softly. "Stay. Please."

"Storm cannot run the institute on her own with none but Kurt," Beast added. "I myself am leaving to Washington as soon as I am able."

They were all crazy. There was no other solution.

He felt a shy hand clutching his pant leg and looked down to see Kylee looking up at him cautiously, her ears back. He heard a faint purr that he could swear almost vibrated from her palm.

God, this kid was the only one who could look him in the face without flinching.

And the Wolverine hadn't fought her. Hadn't tried to hurt her.

Had tried to _protect _her.

And still wanted to. He could feel it, burrowed deep inside him, wrapped around with anger and fury and hatred—there was that need to protect. She was pack. Even more than Rogue, who was like a sister to him. No, Kylee was more. She understood more than anyone, and she knew.

Hadn't even Beast started out as a normal human being? He and Kylee—they'd always been freaks. Long as both of them could remember.

He grunted. He wanted a cigar, but the standard issue sweats he was wearing didn't even have pockets for him to busy himself checking. He pushed past Rogue, and she actually reached for her glove.

"Quit it," he stopped her, not even slowing his pace. "I go where I wanna go, and you damn well know you couldn't get a finger on me if I didn't want it, even now." She stopped, biting her lip. Logan turned back around. "'m goin' upstairs."

Rogue let out a long breath. "Thank you, Logan," she breathed softly, knowing he'd hear it clearly. He thought he heard a breath of relief from Storm too.

They were all crazy.

The only one with an ounce of sense was Jubilee, who had stood watching the whole thing, her expression set and hard, her hands ready to be raised.

The kid'd always been scared of him, but something had changed from the day before. Fear was gone, and instead there was defensive, fearless anger. She was practically ready to fight him right then and there.

Good.

Ignoring the rising pain, he climbed the stairs, apparently not noticing his small orange shadow that trailed behind him.

TBC . . .


	21. No Rest for the Wicked

Thanks for the reviews, people! I just got back from a week-long family vacation and it was wonderful to be welcomed back. I love reviews.

Seriously, if you look forward to these chapters a whole, whole lot, then you can kind of understand how much I look forward to reviews. After I post a new chapter I sit there and refresh every five minutes, watching the "hit" count on the new story and hoping for reviews.

Pitiful picture? Yep. Still, hopefully it works as good encouragement for you guys.

Shorter chapter this time. Be patient. More is coming soon.

Thanks again for reading. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 21: No Rest for the Wicked

* * *

_September 7, 20—_

_It's kinda funny._

_Storm's apparently been ripping the place apart to clean up the mess I made. The second time I've smeared this place with blood._

_The whole place reeks, and not just with disinfectant. Same as with the blood of the guys I killed back when Stryker stormed the place—you can still smell it. Every time I walk in the front door I can smell the blood of the clowns I sliced up there, under all the coming and going, fading—but always there. Now the stink of my blood's smeared all over on top of theirs. Can't come or go without smelling it._

_Storm rained down the front walk until the grass around it'd turned into a swampy mess. Walked out and took a look around, and stood where I'd died on the steps. Rain kinda puddled where my eye shoulda been. Felt weird._

_It takes more than a bunch of chemicals to clean up blood, and rain don't do a thing—just washes it around and hides it in the grass. Even time can't really take care of it, 'cause even after the smell's gone—it's still there, both inside and out._

_Wish there was a better way to clean it up._

* * *

_Now:_

Logan took a long hot shower and limped out of the steaming bathroom, zipping up his pants. He flopped down on the bed, then immediately rose with a sound of disgust. The bedsheets were stained and stank to hell.

One place the cleaning brigade hadn't gotten to yet.

He stripped the bed and was roughly rolling up the stained floor rug when there was a knock at the door.

"Yeah, what?"

"Can I come in?" Beast queried.

"The door's unlocked." Not like it mattered in this place. He'd seen Beast slam a fist through a steel-plated door once. Hardly slowed him down.

Diplomat his ass.

Hank opened the door and stepped kicked. Logan kicked the soiled rug against the wall and clapped his hands together. Besides the blood, he hadn't realized it'd gotten so just plain filthy. Course, it figured. He couldn't count the number of times he'd stomped in after a mission, muddy, bloody, or covered in who-knows-what. Probably about time to get a new one anyway, even without the newest bloodstain.

"What d'ya want?"

"I am soon to leave for the airport. I took off without much warning, and some of my associates are none too happy about my absence, I'm afraid." Logan nodded. Beast cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses. "Yes, well. I took the liberty of procuring this for you," he reached into his suit pocket.

Logan reached out, and Hank dropped it into his hand.

An eye patch.

"I thought it might spare the students a nightmare or two."

Logan grunted, closing his fingers over it.

"Alas, they had no such patch for the whole visage . . . ."

Logan snagged an old t-shirt from his floor and chucked it at Beast's head.

* * *

_September 8, 20—_

_So I told Storm and Rogue 'n all of 'em that I wouldn't leave. But that doesn't damn-well mean I put myself into house arrest, even for a day._

_Gotta get out of here. Gotta breathe. And it sure don't help that Cyke's bike's insurance had expired five months ago._

_And most of all, I gotta find out who this clown was. He knew who I was. Knew more than I do._

_Dammit._

* * *

Logan stood on the front steps, above the stone walkway and staring out over the front lawn. His eye patch covered his empty eye socket.

He could still smell the traces of his own blood, and he knew the darker traces on the walkway weren't there naturally. Even Storm's rains could only wash away so much.

He drew deep on his cigar.

Who was that guy? What was it—Bloodscream, or whatever the hell. It couldn't have been his real name, but then again—half the people who knew him knew him as Wolverine.

Madripoor. France. The ugly bastard'd said they'd seen each other there, and for the life of him he couldn't remember a damn thing.

Not like he had expected anything else.

But no matter how many questions that clown had brought up, he'd answered something even more important.

There was a Before. Before the white snow, before the adamantium. He'd been someone.

_Immortal._

Logan scowled.

_You'll never learn, Patch._

Patch? He said it like it was a name.

Damn. It sounded like a dog's name. Even worse than Wolverine.

_I can't be killed—not by any weapon forged by a man. And that is all you are—all you ever have been._

Logan dropped his cigar and ground it under his heel.

He'd left a note for whoever found it. He'd said he wouldn't leave—permanently, for now—but he needed air.

He headed across the grass, still limping slightly, but not slowing his pace for it in the slightest.

* * *

_September 14, 20—_

_It's weird going back. Course, I've only been outta Canada for a few months, and that's nothin', so that ain't the weird thing. It's walkin' into a high-class bank, bein' let in, bein' recognized, even with this damned patch . . . ._

_I think security near had a heart attack. Still, things went through all right, 'specially once I showed my claws and offered to get the money myself._

_I don't like that. There's a reason I ain't been there in ten years. Got what I came for, and got out. Headed back to the states 's fast as I could, 'cause I knew that as soon as I left they'd make a couple calls . . . ._

_There's a reason I drove around in an old camper for all those years. Didn't have to, but damn . . . they're still lookin' for me. No, not Stryker's clowns—other people. Canadian gov folks. Good people, if you wanna call them that. The worst kind to have after you._

_They might not've made me into what I am—a weapon—but they recognized me for it. They honed me, used me, and I got sick of it. So I left. They didn't like it one bit, and tried comin' after me . . . probably saw me as an investment, or a secret weapon or some crap that they didn't want to give up._

_Either way, that's long past. No regrets, either. Not about walkin' away, anyway._

_Not like getting to the states would leave 'em behind, though. Got them on my tail just outside Ottawa. Ended up leadin' them on a wild goose-chase 'til I lost 'em near Marathon. Knew some guys there that helped me sneak back over the border without drawin' too much attention._

_Some day they'll learn that the Wolverine goes where he wants ta go._

* * *

Storm was overseeing the placement of the last of the new carpets when she heard the motorcycle roar up the drive.

She didn't think anything of it at first—it was a common enough sound, after all, and always had been, with first Cyclops and then Logan. The bike had gone silent before she realized what was wrong with it.

Cyclops' bike had been beyond repair. It'd sat slumped in pieces at the back of the garage for the past few days since Logan had left, and no one else around here drove a motorcycle.

She walked to the garage to find Logan kicking down the stand of a red, gleaming Harley. He looked up and gave a crooked smile, which looked even more crooked due to the eye patch he still wore. At least all of the other scars had healed up and vanished.

"Beauty, ain't she?"

Storm stared. "Where did you get this?" she asked, reaching out a hand, but Logan caught her wrist before she could touch it.

"Not unless ya want to shine her up, darlin'. That's a custom paint job. Virgin—never been rid before." He stroked a handlebar gently. He almost missed her suspicious glare, but caught enough of it for him to raise his hands innocently—or, as innocently as Wolverine could be. "I didn't steal her. Got the registration forms and everythin'. All legit."

"I did not think you had stolen it," Ororo claimed. Logan snorted, and she glared at him defensively. "Well, where did you get the money for such a thing?"

Logan raised an eyebrow at her. "Who died and made you Cyclops?"

Storm folded her arms, stepping back. "That's not funny, Logan."

Logan ducked his head. "Yeah," he admitted, putting down the garage door and engaging the lock. "Been a long week." No need to expound. His life was complicated enough as it is.

"At least you came back whole this time."

Logan snorted, heading to the house. "Yeah, whatever," he muttered.

All he wanted was food and a nice, long nap.

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine slipped downwards on the slope in his eagerness, craving fresh meat and warmth. His claws itched beneath his skin, and he growled softly.

Then, suddenly, he froze, staring down at the ground, and the clear tracks that he had slipped into after his slide down the muddied incline.

There were footprints there, and not animal ones either.

Wolverine crouched down, staring around warily as he breathed in the stink of leather and gun oil, and no less than five individual humans. He remembered the stench vividly, though distantly. Like his dreams, spiking pain and terror, yet without understanding. He gave a low growl, feeling a wild roar of red rising in his mind. But these tracks were not completely fresh—maybe an hour old. He felt a sudden terror, and an urge to run and keep running and not look back. He could lose them again.

_Or he could follow them. Follow them and kill them all. Easy._

He knew them now. He wasn't weak anymore, if he ever had been. He knew who he was, what he was.

He was the best. And he wouldn't let them hurt him again.

And if they were dead, they never would be able to, ever again.

He straightened slowly, already baring his teeth at this new hunt, but he caught himself.

_The kid._

He shook his head, growling as he stepped in the direction in which the tracks led, but then stopped again.

_No. The kid._

He looked down at the tracks, then back at his own, and felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the snow.

He'd left his own tracks, and they were impossible to miss in the melting snow.

These guys were bad news, and something reminded him that they never traveled alone. There were always others.

_Why were they here? How had they found him?_

There were always others, looking for him. Looking for freaks like him. Looking for freaks like the kid.

Wolverine growled again.

_No_.

He'd gotten careless. He'd gotten careless, and he'd led them right to the kid.

Wolverine turned around and darted back up the slope, refusing to let the thought that he was running away enter his mind. He backtracked, running straight rather than following the winding path that he had taken in following his prey this long.

There was something cold and hard inside of him—something sharp, and honed. He wanted blood—he wanted to kill, and to tear—to let the red rage take him, like it did—let him forget.

His hands shook, and he convinced himself it was the cold, and that the cold pit of tar in his gut was just hunger.

He was hunted again, and it's something that he hasn't felt for a long time.

He hated it.

Wolverine was running full out when he heard the angry roaring. He looked up, trying to find the source of the sound as it grew louder—closer.

Too loud.

He dove under some bushes, hugging close to the snow as some giant creature passed overhead, making the tops of the sway with the wind it left.

A helicopter.

Damn.

If there was any doubt in his mind before of who these people were, for some reason this banished it. As soon as the noise passed farther away he leaped to his feet, running again.

Somehow, they knew he was there. They were looking for him again.

Wolverine slid into the cave through the muddied entrance, but then stopped, frozen.

The kid was asleep, his breathing loud even over Wolverine's own panting, huddled in his coat by the dying fire.

The kid was too sick to run. Too sick to even walk from here.

Wolverine straightened slowly, his eyes not leaving the kid. His hair brushed the top of the cave. His heart pounded in his ears.

Panic faded. Fear vanished. Resolve took their places.

Hard, metal, fearless resolve. A soft growl rumbled from his chest.

The kid shifted slightly, and Wolverine looked away—back to the white snow and the world behind him.

He stepped outside of the cave into the sunlight. He tested the air, like a wolf heading out on a hunt.

It was time to stop running.

TBC . . .


	22. The Best at What He Does

These last couple weeks have been insane. I could rant for a long while about that, but you guys aren't here for that, are you?

One thing that's definitely helped me through are the reviews. Thanks a ton to everyone who reviewed! Every time I catch a rut in this story I just go re-read them all and then get back to work.

Anyway, I'm on 3 hours of sleep right now and feeling a bit loopy (Hopefully this chapter won't reflect that. ;)), so I'm going to stop babbling.

Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter 22: The Best at What He Does

* * *

_I hate sentinels._

_Damn tin cans. Clumsy and stupid as the government brains who made them. But that makes 'em even more inconvenient to have running around, if anythin'._

_The government swears they stopped making 'em months ago. Dunno if I believe 'em for a second, but 'Roro says we have enough trouble as it is, without worryin' about government conspiracies or whatnot. Don't blame me for laughin' at her._

_One way or another, there's been some rogue tin woodsmen popping up now and again across the good ol' US of A. 'parently some smartass gov-man told them they could reconfigure all hostiles or non-hostiles in their systems, and their little computer brains took off with that and decided anyone tryin' to order 'em around was hostile. Damn smart, that._

_I'd pay a lot to see the look on that clown's face when he realized the deep crap he was in._

* * *

_Now:_

Logan lunged at the sentinel, twisting his claws in the metal cover so he could climb upwards without cutting right through. He scrambled upwards, his feet flailing beneath him as the sentinel turned. He felt a breeze, and glanced over his shoulder to see another sentinel leveling its hand right at him, its missile launcher opening.

Oh, great.

Logan leaped from the sentinel's side, free falling. The missile shot right past him into the first, and the blast from the explosion sent Logan's free fall into a wild, spinning careen.

He didn't have time to think before he slammed into the ground, plowing a good rut in the mud.

"Oh, to hell with this," he snarled, spitting out mud and slashing at the dirt as he rose up, hardly feeling the bruises with the rush of adrenaline. "Popsicle! Give me a lift, will you?"

Bobby did a double-take at his blood-and-muddied condition, pausing in the act of freezing a sentinel's shoulder-joint. He turned a single hand, and suddenly Logan felt the ground shoot up with him on top of it as a pillar of ice grew right under his feet. And then, he was airborne.

It wasn't near as direct or accurate as his and Colossus's now-famed fastball special, but Logan wasn't picky.

His trajectory went over the massive robot's head, and he turned his momentum into a flip, spinning to catch himself on back. His claws screeched in protest, hardly slowing his descent until he rammed them up to his elbow. He stopped with a teeth-jarring jolt, the torn metal of the sentinel slicing into his arm as he caught himself still. He snarled, slicing deeper through the covering, and let his claws do what they did best.

He cut through the shell like it was soft butter, cleaving through the tank-level armor like it wasn't there. His claws struck a cable, throwing sparks into his face and a jolt of pain through his skeleton. Undeterred, he dug in, metal flesh flying until he dragged himself fully into the massive machine, set on doing as much destruction as possible.

Not as satisfactory as fighting the real thing, but you did what you could with what life gave you.

The metal earth that surrounded him suddenly gave an odd shudder, and began to waver like a ship on an uneasy sea.

Damn.

Logan scrambled backwards, heedless of the sharp and twisted metal that cut him, and he jumped from the sentinel, falling again.

This time he kept his landing, though—catching his weight on his feet and keeping it there. If he'd had normal bones he'd probably had splintered his legs like green wood. It was a good thing he didn't have to worry about that.

The sentinel was tottering above him, and Logan ran forward, slicing at its leg and letting it topple over. The ground shook as it landed, and Logan dove out of the way as an energy beam shot so close to him the heat scorched the side of his face.

He ducked behind a fallen piece of scrap metal, looking for the kids. He hoped Rogue'd gotten out of there like he'd told her—she was helpless in a fight like this.

"Logan!"

Think of the devil.

He jerked around, seeing Rogue scrambling over the scorched and potted war-torn earth, ducking and weaving.

Dammit.

He jerked up, running full at her. He hit her, knocking her clean over and shielding her with his body as a rocket shot past them. Shrapnel tore into his back, but a millisecond later he was on his feet, dragging Rogue up and turning to see the last sentinel standing, and leveling both hands towards them.

Shit.

KA-BOOOOOM!

He felt the heat even through his eye patch. Light blinded him, and Logan staggered, bringing his hands to his ears at the blast of noise. Damn—he was blind and deaf—all he could see was white—he blinked rapidly to see the sentinel still standing there—but now smoking from a sizable hole in its head, while electricity arched over its full length, crackling.

A final gust of wind finished it off, pushing it to fall away from them harmlessly. Storm all but appeared at Logan's side as he began to stand slowly, a hand over a smoking hole in his side. "Wolverine! Are you all right? I saw—"

She was cut off by a very thorough kiss. Iceman gave a whoop, and Kitty laughed.

"Logan!" Storm gasped, pulling back. She wiped her mouth—the kiss had tasted muddy and bloody—and made a face. "What—?"

"Aw, come on, darlin'," he grinned wolfishly. "It wasn't that bad." He turned back to the younger X-Men. "Let's get the hell out of here."

* * *

One more X-suit destroyed.

At this rate he might finally convince Storm to let them wear something more comfortable. She couldn't keep up the drain in the budget like this for long. Jeans and a t-shirt were much more affordable, not to mention a whole lot less tacky.

Where'd Chuck get his money, anyway? Reading old folks' minds and cheating them out of their riches?

Right.

Still, he couldn't help but wonder.

He started down the stairs. He hadn't reached the grass when the door opened behind him.

"Where are you going?" Storm asked, her voice carrying clearly in the darkness. "You said you were staying."

Logan looked down at the faintly dark-swirled sidewalk. He wondered if those stains would ever really wash away. Well, at least most people wouldn't recognize it for what it was. "Never be stupid enough to say somethin' like that." They were silent for a long moment. "Headin' to France."

"With no passport or money?" Storm asked dubiously. Logan didn't answer. She let it go. "This has to do with that creature that attacked you." Logan'd told them about the Bloodscream character—briefly. Wouldn't have left him alone otherwise.

Logan looked back at her. "I gotta remember, 'Ro. You don't know what it's like, not even knowin' who you are."

"But will this teach you anything?" Storm pressed. Logan looked away. "They never have before, and even if you learn something, does it matter? If you don't remember—whoever you were isn't who you are now."

Logan just frowned into the darkness. "I gotta know," he insisted quietly. "I just—I gotta catch one these guys alive, find out who hired him. Somebody knows who I am, Storm."

"Who you _were_," she emphasized again. "Are you really expecting to track down someone who wants to kill you, then take his word on what kind of person you are? _I _can tell you that, Logan."

Wolverine clenched his fist. Only he could make such a small gesture look so dangerous. "Someone knows. I think more people know than they're willing to say."

"Who?"

He just shook his head. It would be too complicated to tell Storm about the Canadian government, whoever'd given him his claws, these guys after him, and a certain man named Nick Fury . . . .

"Does this have anything to do with the new motorcycle?"

Logan turned, looking at her. "Now who's a telepath? You're right—we don't need Frosty."

She looked at him blankly before she realized what she was talking about. "Emma Frost?" She glared. "_You _are avoiding the subject."

Logan shrugged. "Whatever works."

Ororo stepped forward, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. "Logan, surely by now you realize that we are family here. You could not tell us anything that would change that."

"Wanna bet?"

"Logan." Her voice was low in warning.

Logan's expression sobered. "I gotta do this, 'Ro."

Ororo sighed. "Your coming and going like this is not easy on any of us." He didn't answer. She removed her hand from his arm. "Go, then. But remember, Wolverine—perhaps it is time for you to start leaving the past where it belongs. You have a future for you, here."

Logan nodded—acknowledging her words more than agreeing with them—and headed down the stairs. "See ya later."

"Be careful. Do not be afraid to call if you find trouble, since you are so intent on seeking it out."

Logan snorted softly. "Darlin', trouble finds me easy enough. Why wait for it to find me?"

He cut across the lawn towards the garage to get his bike. The fading scent of his own blood in the grass tickled his nose.

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine ran through the woods, his head low and his steps all but silent, as he had for the months and months before.

But this time he wasn't running from anything.

Each stride brought their scent closer—fresher. Eight men in this group, all stinking of gun oil and exhilaration and caution—and fear, as they should.

_They'd tried to kill him. They knew him. They knew what he could do—and would do._

He was getting close.

And as he drew closer, he remembered.

_Pain. Suffocation. Terror. Searing liquid pouring into his mouth, his nose, his lungs as he gasped in vain for air as knives cut to the bone . . . burning . . . burning . . . burning . . . ._

Something putrid—something reeking and chemical, churning his stomach as it mixed with the stink of too much spilled blood.

_His_.

He bared his teeth as he ran, defying the fear, the memories of pain, the nightmares.

He'd killed them before. He'd gotten away. And now he was stronger, smarter.

He was the best there was in the forest, and here he would kill them all.

He was the prey no longer.

He could hear them, now, checking in with their other units as they swept the area. Their footsteps were careful, their eyes wary. They knew he was close.

But they had no idea how close.

Wolverine moved silently from their path, hunched next to the muddied ground as he prepared to spring.

_SNIKT._

One of the soldiers stopped, lifting his gun. "What was that?" he whispered.

Wolverine leaped towards the two closest soldiers.

The two of them were dead before they had time to open their mouths to cry out. One fell to the ground, screaming to hurt his ears as he clutched as his sliced open gut. He'd be joining them soon enough.

Wolverine whirled away from them, flecks of blood spraying from his claws. Three plugs slammed into his chest, staggering his step slightly, but not for long enough. He darted low, snarling, and dove in.

He sliced through a barrel of a gun, and a caught a couple fingers by the scream. Bullets slammed into him and he kicked out, catching a soldier's chest with a loud _crack! _Blades cut flesh, scarlet stained the snow, and screams died with their masters.

"_Control!_" one of the soldiers screamed into his radio. _"Team B—we've found him! We've found Experiment X—_" He was silenced suddenly. The radio fell into the snow.

Wolverine withdrew his claws straightened, blood-splattered and furious. The men around him were silent; the only sound was a helicopter drawing close.

Pain roared through his body, turning his vision red.

He bared his teeth in a grin, turning away from the slaughter

He ran back up the hill, working for higher ground. The bullet-wounds burned as they healed, but as he came to a stop and looked down the steep incline they were nothing but memories—the bullets themselves long-since lost in the snow behind him.

* * *

_ Soldiers knew they had me._

_In the beginning it was just like that—hot and bloody. I snuck up on them and took them out, bitin' a few bullets for my trouble, and takin' them down by the dozens in turn. But they got smarter after a while. Spread out, kept me in sights, and took their long shots. They had all the time in the world, and the numbers to spare in both men and ammo. They'd brought an arsenal to take out an army._

_I could'a cared less, in the beginning. The pain just made me madder, wilder—stronger. But it started to wear. Even my healin' factor's got a limit._

* * *

Wolverine lurched to his feet in the middle of the most recent slaying field. Radios hissed static at him as he staggered forward, a hand over his chest as blood splurted between his fingers from the latest round of bullets he'd taken. He leaned against a bullet-potted tree as the blood slowed, then flung the bullet away from him as it popped out of the mutilated flesh. He trembled with pain and fury, his hard eyes darting to the sky as the helicopter drew close overhead.

He bolted down the slope, the wind of the helicopter shaking the leafless treetops as it zeroed in on his location. As it came over him he dove to the side, throwing himself behind a fallen tree and covering his head.

-

Machinegun fire fell around him, sending mud and woodchips flying. Bullets slammed into his leg and he jerked, but he rose as soon as the rounds passed, running downwind. They'd been trying to sneak up on him that way, hoping he wouldn't scent them out before—

There was a soft thud on the snow in front of him. Instinct threw him to the side, curling up in a ball—

The world ended.

It hit him like a wall, tearing into his leg and ripping the flesh right to the bone, and shrapnel sliced into his side and ripped up his face. The force threw him back, and he bulleted into a tree and clean through it.

He rolled onto his stomach, coughing up blood.

_Grenade_.

He tried to stand, but his leg wasn't responding—it wasn't even hurting, now, and he looked down, half expecting to see it missing entirely.

Cold, scorched metal gleamed up at him from the knee down. Bits of burnt flesh hung off the flawless metal like rags of cloth.

Immediately tendrils of muscle and blood vessels began crawling their way down his shin, twisting like a living thing.

Well, hell.

He began crawling forward, ignoring the damage of the grenade even as he felt his insides crawling back together. He could hear the men now over the ringing in his ears, shouting and running up the slope towards him

They knew he was down.

He dragged himself to a tree, then dug his claws into the wood, pulling himself to his feet with his arms. His rasping breath was loud in his own ears.

No time to rest. No time to heal.

He stuck his head from behind the tree, trying to scent them out downwind. A spattering of bullets made him jerk back, and he hugged against the trunk of the tree, his claws holding him up as much as anything else.

Damn.

The helicopter was coming back for another round. One more blast like that and he'd be down for the count.

His leg was healing, and beginning to burn as his nerves healed enough to feel. He gritted his teeth against the agony.

He had to move. Now.

He forced his exposed muscles to move. He darted low, ducking beneath the shots bolted after him.

"He's going west! He's moving!" someone shouted.

He saw their black glasses peeking from the trees and bolted at them, ready for the shock of bullets to cut through him.

"Raaaarghhh!"

They never came.

The soldier's eyes widened and he stepped back, lifting the gun's barrel, and flame spouted right into his face.

He roared in agony and struck out blindly. Metal sliced metal, and slick liquid sprayed over his face and arms. Fire darted up his arms, flaring at the fuel splashed all over them. Wolverine lunged forward, burning as he cut blindly through cloth, flesh and metal around him.

_It was too much. He had to get back. He had to heal._

He bolted backwards, jerking as bullets caught his flesh. His eyeballs were seared—he was blinded, his senses burned to hell. He hit the dirt, rolling and covering his face. He choked, gagging on the smoke from his own flesh burning.

_Heal, dammit! Heal!_

He heard shouts—they were coming for him again. They were too many; too much for even him.

He staggered to his feet. Two more shots shook his body. He gasped, pushing himself forward on all fours down the mountain.

He didn't know where the hell he was. His eyelids were growing back, and his vision was clearing slowly—too slowly. The world was white and grey, and he blinked furiously, tears burning their ways down his seared face.

_Heal!_

He pushed himself to his feet, forcing himself to stagger forward.

The helicopter roared overhead and he ducked, but his footing slipped. He fell forward, tumbling down the slick slope. He slammed bonelessly into a bolder and lay there, limp.

"We got him, boys!"

"Move in!"

_Get up, dammit._

He lifted his head, getting a fire-blackened arm beneath him and raising himself slightly. His skin cracked, oozing blood. He snarled, baring his teeth at the sky.

He had to get out of there. He couldn't . . . let . . . them . . . get . . . him . . . again . . . .

He stood, hunched, his claws drawn and gleaming with red and black before him.

There was no way he was going to beat them. They were like ants—he'd already killed too many for him to bother to count, but they weren't thinning.

He looked north—to the cave, where the kid was sleeping.

He bared his teeth, turned around as sharply as he could without falling over, and ran, leaving a trail of scarlet behind him.

* * *

_Finally got the story 'bout what happened the night Bloodscream bled me out from Rogue. Was like pullin' teeth, but I got it._

_Could'a killed her. Almost killed Kitty. Dunno why I didn't kill Kylee._

_Wouldn't risk it again for the world._

_I pulled Storm aside and talked to her long and good. If somethin' happens like that again they're gonna take me down—outside. Get Iceboy or 'Ro to freeze me solid, or Jubilee to spark me—kid might be the only one willin' to do what she got to. Either way, it gotta be from a distance—no Rogue, no Colossus. If Pyro were still here he'd do fine. A good dozen shocks from Storm might even do it._

_Best way to do it would be to toss me in the pool, if not the lake. A good knock in the head and water deep enough and I'll drop right to the bottom, with these bones of mine. Best way to cool things off, get control again. Hurts like hell comin' back after that, but it works._

_But that was the problem. Storm brought me back. Looked like she'd been shocked herself when I told her she should'a left me dead. Would'a been best in the long run._

_Looked doubly shocked when I told her if somethin' like that happened again they weren't to take any chances—they were goin' ta knock me out quick and toss me in the Danger Room—or they were gonna have to kill me._

_Made her swear it, though. Tried to make Rogue swear it, too. Rogue gave me a tongue-lashing and refused to promise anything, but Storm understood. She didn't like it, but she understood._

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine'd broken through their line and was bolting downhill as best as he could. His skin was crawling back at half its usual rate, and he could feel a dozen bullets wedged inside his scorched and torn flesh. His foot was still skinless, and the pain was enough that he had shoved his hand into his mouth to stifle the scream that threatened to escape him as he ran.

He couldn't spare the breath—he needed to run.

Blood trickled down his hand where his teeth pierced his skin, but he didn't notice.

They were right on his heels. He was slowing—and could hear them right behind him, closing around like a pincher. Trying to close off any escape.

He had to lead them away from the kid.

Wolverine stumbled on the uneven ground, but skid to an abrupt stop to stare over the cliff to the white-watered river below.

The soldiers ran at him—from the woods, and a group spread to his right, just out of lunging distance.

Wolverine whipped his head around, his teeth bared.

"DIE, YOU FREAK ANIMAL!"

The bullets slammed into his chest and he staggered back, blood filling his mouth and drowning him. He tried to blink blood from his eyes in vain, struggled to breathe, his feet slipping on the ice as his vision began to waver.

Dammit, they would never have him.

He leaned back, and even as his legs gave out beneath him he fell backwards and over the edge.

A soldier swore and lunged forward, but his gloved hand slipped on the Wolverine's blood-slick arm and the feral man fell backwards. He fell like a bag of dirt, slamming twice into the cliff-side before hitting into the white water and vanishing.

The soldiers gathered around the edge, staring down at where he had disappeared.

One of them lifted off his helmet with a bloodied hand from where he had been holding his sliced arm. He'd gotten lucky surviving at all, and he knew it.

Nothing human could have survived that fall.

But Weapon X wasn't human. If there had been any doubters before, no one questioned what they were doing to this animal now, and why he needed to be brought back in. And if he couldn't be controlled, he needed to be put down for good.

"Damn."

There was nothing else to say.

TBC . . .


	23. Not Waving but Drowning

This week has been amaaaaazing, and to celebrate the coming of _Dark Knight_ I'm posting this chapter a day earlier than I expected.

Thanks again for all the reviews—both from newcomers and experienced supporters alike. It's wonderful to hear from you all. Keep it up! ;)

This is a longer chapter, so hopefully it works all right.

Please remember to review!

* * *

Chapter 23: Not Waving but Drowning

* * *

_Just got back from France. Found nothin'._

* * *

_Now:_

_They attacked in a wave, swarming down with their gleaming blades bared._

_Ninjas._

_Logan wasn't worried. He heard them coming, smelled them coming, and was ready for them. When the first one struck out with his slightly curved sword, he blocked it easily, brushing it away as if it were nothing._

_'Relax. Have patience. You are not an animal. You are more than instinct and reflex.'_

_The blades swung around him, and he danced, feeling the wind of their passing, but no pain. Nothing could touch him._

_'You were born with these things. But instinct must be tempered with reason, and reflex with thought. Practice these things, and you will truly be the best.'_

_He caught one of the ninja's arms and flipped over his head, cleanly keeping the battle moving, the dance paced._

_"Logan!"_

_It was a woman's voice—frantic, desperate—in pain. He whirled around, interrupting the dance as his eyes darting up to find her—he had to find her . . . ._

NO!

_Fire sliced through his chest._

_He gaped down at the sword sticking clean through his heart. Blood gushed around the wound, and his vision turned red with fury and pain. A sword he hadn't even realized he had been wielding fell from his hands to the ground._

_"!"_

_He struck out, his claws popping from his knuckles, splurting blood. He staggered, the dance interrupted, the serenity shattered. Swords jabbed at him from all directions, piercing like needles through his lungs, his gut—slicing to his bones. He flailed wildly—his actions frantic, furious, but he fell beneath the throng, snarling, clawing—but drowning in his own blood._

_The bodies of the dead fell on top of him, pressing him down, and the more he struggled the more it weighed. He gasped, striking out and feeling hot blood splash onto his face, clothing his naked body in scarlet._

_He couldn't move. His arms dragged him down, chains held him. Blood blinded him, turning his vision black as he floated in it._

_He rested, floating in the heat, unable to move—paralyzed as fire began to replace his blood in his veins._

_"Cardiotach, Miss Hines?"_ _The voice was cold—scientific. Logan's heartbeat pounded like gunshots, shaking him. He wanted to bare his teeth, to open his eyes and let the berserker free and kill and run . . . . Let the animal take him away and let him forget . . . ._

_His whole being shouted at him to run, to flee the agony, the terror._

_He couldn't even tremble._

_"Rising rapidly, sir."_

_Liquid flame ate at his flesh, burning him from the inside out as a thousand needles pierced him, violating him._

_"Feed. Steady. Feed."_

_His lungs burned for air, his eyes stung with acid. His body wanted to scream—it needed to scream, but he couldn't even manage that. He was all theirs._

_Deep, helpless in his own head, he screamed as his body floated peacefully in the clean, cold lab._

_"There should be no further problems, professor. You see, his heart rate can't possibly go any higher or he'd be—"_

VEEP!

_"Impeded."_

_". . . Superman or something."_

_Something grabbed his throat, tearing him clean out of the hot liquid. The touch burned, sucking deep into his soul, and even as he gasped for air the long fingers curled around his throat, choking him again. He opened his eyes to see Bloodscream leering down at him._

_"A weapon forged by the hand of man," he sneered. "That's all you ever have been, Patch, and that's all you ever will be!"_

Logan jerked out of bed with a strangled gasp, clutching at his throat. His claws had popped and left deep groves in his flesh—one slicing clean through his bicep—but they were already well on their way to healing as he sat up. He retracted his claws and put his head in his hands, taking deep breaths as he waited for the trembling to stop, waited for the knife of panic in his chest to ease. Waited for the terrified sweat on his skin to chill. Minutes passed in the darkness, with nothing but his own shuddering breath to keep him company.

He let out a long, slow breath, wiping the sweat from his face and lifting his head.

It was a mechanical process, one he'd almost gotten used to over the years. He cursed, rising out of bed to go wash his face. He rinsed out his mouth afterwards, trying to get rid of the bitter taste of fear and bile. He stopped, gripping the porcelain sink and staring at his own reflection.

He swallowed, and his arms gave one little tremble before he clenched his fists, forcing the trembling to stop.

Dammit.

The dreams were always vivid, but not like they had been these past few days.

Damn Bloodscream. Like he didn't have enough to have nightmares about without adding crazy ninjas and vampires to the mix.

But that scream, that cry . . . .

He shook his head. The dream itself was already fading, but he remembered the sound of her voice, the agony in his own chest, the jolting stab worse even the pain as the sword shot through his heart . . . .

It hadn't been Jeannie.

He knew that. He'd had enough nightmares about cutting her heart out to recognize her voice—her screams—even in his dreams.

Who else had he killed? Was this just a twisted dream, or another clump of memories?

And if it was the latter, what did it mean?

He rubbed his chest. His lungs were still seized up—aching, and his throat was tight. He swallowed, and wiped at his eyes again. Damn sweat.

He glanced at the clock. He'd only gone to bed two hours ago—late. He'd come back to the mansion early enough to attack the Danger Room for a couple hours before making his usual rounds and ending up in bed. Sometimes he wondered how necessary sleep was for him anyway. After all, he'd gone weeks without sleep before. Sure, it screwed his head over royally, but he could do it if he needed to—even if he was hallucinating at the end.

Well, he was done with sleep for now, whether he was still tired or not.

He turned away from the mirror, pulling his arm down from rubbing his chest.

The pain'd go away. He just couldn't think about it, that was all.

It'd go away.

* * *

It was five o'clock in the morning. That was fine with Logan—it wasn't like he was sleeping well anyway. He was restless, and sleep even without nightmares was the last thing on his mind now.

So he ran.

He was barefoot, dressed in loose, comfortable sweats as he ran through the forest. Sweat ran down his face, and he ran faster.

Ten miles and still going strong.

France had been a disappointment, but it could have been worse. It certainly was better than his last visit to Paris, where he'd been sicced on a bunch of terrorists. Ended up with a big shoot-out, one to a dozen.

One'd walked away.

Hadn't even needed to pop the claws that time, though. Canadian government's Department H'd made sure he knew how to use a gun before they'd sent him in, and that'd been well more than enough. It was low-profile, putting him through his paces to make sure he had his head screwed on straight before they'd put him out to real business.

This time, though, there'd been nothing. He'd trashed a couple bars, punched out more than a few idiots, and even put money out for information—but nobody had ever heard of any crazy by the name of Bloodscream, or anyone by his description. No one recognized Logan, either.

Figured. Everyone who knew the sucker was probably already dead. Probably the same for Logan, too. People generally didn't live too long around him.

He jogged to the back door, slowing his strides. He took the stairs three at a time and opened the door to stride into the mansion, wiping his face with his forearm as he headed to the kitchen.

Storm was already awake and at the counter, dressed in a bathrobe and grading papers with a red pen in one hand and a huge mug of coffee in the other. Her hair was tied up in an odd towel-turban above her head.

Logan walked on in, opening the fridge and sniffing before grabbing a carton of milk and straightening to guzzle it.

"From the carton, Logan?" Storm asked, looking up at him.

Logan shrugged without pausing from his drink. Finally he finished, lowering the empty gallon jug and crushing it in his hands. "Was almost gone anyway," he said, tossing it in the trash. He stretched, coming around beside her. "English?"

"History," Storm replied, rubbing her forehead. Logan picked up a random essay, setting it on the counter and sitting down. He frowned down at it, lifting his patch to rub sweat from under it.

Storm stopped, looking at him. "Are you ever going to stop wearing that?" she asked.

Logan glanced up to give her an odd look. "Eh?"

"I saw you in the Danger Room last night."

Logan blinked at the seeming non-sequitur, then glowered. "Damn."

After France he'd felt like a real workout, and set the Danger Room to something that would stretch even his limits. He'd taken off his patch so he wouldn't be handicapped by it. It's not like he needed it anymore, after all.

"How long has it been?"

Logan shrugged. "Couple weeks. Got used to the damn thing." At Storm's look, he glared twice as fiercely, flipping up the patch so he could pin her with both eyes. "Y'know, you lot go on about how we should try t'use other ways before violence." He pulled a cigar out of his pocket. "This patch is preventative."

"You are trying to quit?"

"Funny." He lit up his zippo. A small puff of wind blew it out.

"_Not _in the kitchen."

"You let the elf _bamf _around in here."

Ororo decided she didn't want to rehash this argument again. "Preventative?" she repeated, eyeing his patch dubiously.

"Sure. Scares 'em off. Starts 'em thinking how I lost the eye, and if we get talking I can tell 'em how I lost it in a knife-fight 'gainst twenty men and was the only one who walked away," Logan smirked.

Well, for Logan such a boast would be an under-exaggeration, even if the average listener wouldn't know that. Still, if it worked . . . .

"And if they aren't scared off and decide to fight anyway, it's usually 'cause they figure I've got a handicap."

"And they are all the more the fools," Storm finished.

"Yeah," Logan said, picking at his cigar before sticking it in his mouth, unlit. "'Sides, it makes the fight more interesting."

Storm shook her head. "You speak all of this as if through experience."

"I wasn't chillin' on a beach with a broad in France, Ororo." He took the cigar from his mouth, smirking. "Well, not most the time."

"Very funny," Storm said. Logan pushed the essay back towards her, and she returned it to its place on the pile as he stood. "You are not planning on leaving again soon?"

Logan tapped his unlit cigar against his hand, frowning down at it before putting it back in his mouth. "Thinkin' about Madripoor."

"Will you at least stay around for a few days?" Storm asked. "The children are restless, and I do not have time for their Danger Room sessions. Besides, Alex and Lorna are coming to the school, and I was hoping you'd be around to help show them the ropes."

Logan's eyebrows lowered. "Summers and Dane're comin'?"

"I know what you said, Logan, but especially with you gone so much recently . . . we need the help. And I trust both Alex and Lorna completely. The professor asked them to come on more than once. I think that in some way they're hoping to make it up to him, by coming now."

Logan flicked on his zippo a second time, shielding it as he lit up. He turned around. "What the hell," he murmured. "Ain't like I care one way or another."

"You will be here?"

"Hell, darlin', you couldn't keep me away," Logan said, looking back from the door. "Another Summers in the house? I wouldn't miss it for the world."

* * *

_Then:_

_He was drowning, paralyzed. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move—there was only agony . . . . _

Wolverine gasped, his claws shooting out reflexively. Water flooded his lungs and he flailed blindly, still caught in a nightmare. He coughed, spewing water out into the shallows.

He gagged, dragging himself further onto the shore from where he'd been washed up. His limbs trembled, and his lungs refused to cooperate. He collapsed into the muddied ground, coughing helplessly.

He rolled onto his back, his vision red, and black, and white. The trees were grey around him—there was nothing but pain, like fire eating at his lungs. He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't . . . think.

But he could hear. The sound of a helicopter flying the length of the river was clear even through the haze of confusion.

_Run. Have to . . . go?_

He put a hand to his head. His hair was short—burned away, and his hand came away red from blood. He stared at it, dazed.

_Kid._

He snarled, but even that was interrupted by hacking coughs. He curled in on himself, growling as he felt the searing metal of bullets inside of him, working their way out inch by agonizing inch.

_Men._

He rose onto his hands and knees, dragging himself from the water. The air brushed against his raw back and he bit off a scream.

_Kid._

He dragged himself forward, then rose onto his feet and staggered forward, following the sound of the stream. Heading to the mountains.

* * *

_Was more than half delirious. Fall probably turned half my brain to mush. If I'd'a been thinkin' I never'd gone back._

_After any healin' like that there's nothin' you want to do more than eat and sleep. Dunno how I got back up that mountain—hardly remember a thing of it, really. But somehow I did, 'cause I woke up the next mornin' and there I was, with the kid staring at me like I was some half-dead thing._

_He was damned right about that, too._

* * *

Gambit stirred, then opened his eyes. He stared up at the cave ceiling for a good long while.

He was alive.

He swallowed. His throat was raw and dry, but he could breathe, and no longer felt as if he were freezing from the inside out. His eyes drifted towards the fire and he reached out a shaking hand to the bowl of melted snow not far from him. He drained it quickly, though he spilled a good half of it on the floor before he could get it to his mouth.

He felt weak, but lucid. The last days felt like another lifetime, like a bad dream.

He raised his head slowly, and then sat up. The fire had gone down, and he took a piece and added it to the barely-glowing ashes, hoping it'd catch fire on his own instead of smothering the whole thing. He rubbed his eyes and looked around.

There he was.

Wolverine lay curled not far from the cave entrance. His breathing was deep and even, his bulk dark in the shadows.

The man'd fallen asleep.

Gambit settled back down, pulling his coat closer around himself and hoping the fire would heat the cave up a little bit.

His eyes were drawn back to Wolverine's silhouette. He frowned, rising again, and inched achingly towards the feral man, wondering what was different.

It was his hair.

It was so absurd, but it came as such a shock that Gambit stared at him for a full minute. The wild mess of hair had been cut back, and his sideburns were gone except for some short scruff.

It shouldn't have surprised him so much, but it did; the man, now sleeping, actually looked like a man, after all.

But that wasn't all of it. His pants had been reduced to little more than scraps, and dark streaks of blood stained his sweat-gleaming skin. His brow furrowed with lingering pain.

Gambit sat back, shaking from his own weakness and from some vague memories which he had thought were fever-dreams.

He'd heard gunshots, for real. The Wolverine had been fighting.

Wolverine's head suddenly jerked up, so quickly that Gambit started. Wolverine's eyes narrowed and he looked towards the entrance of the cave.

"What is it, Wolvie?" Gambit whispered. The wild man looked at him, his eyes confused. He paused, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead. He moaned softly.

He could hear the helicopters again, drawing closer. They were coming here, and why wouldn't they?

Wolverine tensed, crawling to his knees. Bullets clinked onto the ground as he stood. He trembled, and his stomach growled, but he didn't have time to rest. Didn't have time to eat, even if he didn't need to hunt to get it. He was healed enough, despite the lingering phantom pains and the burning deep in his limbs and chest. He could fight, and that was enough.

He looked at the kid, who looked back at him, pale, but awake.

Wolverine gritted his teeth. The helicopters were drawing closer, and he thought he could hear a truck, and men. He clenched his fists.

"Wolverine—"

"Shut up," Wolverine rumbled. At least, that's what he had meant to say, but it came out as a half-hiss, half growl. He coughed, hacking up a gob of half-congealed blood.

The helicopter passed overhead, and Wolverine shrank down, putting a hand towards the kid to ward him deeper into the cave.

"Who are dey, mon ami?"

A blast suddenly shook the cave. Gambit swore, covering his head as rocks and dust fell from the ceiling—but it held. Wolverine snarled, looking out.

They were planning on bombing him out. Of course, he'd survive it, and they'd dig him out. The kid, though . . . .

Wolverine looked at him. He was ready to go down fighting. If the men got him, maybe they didn't know or wouldn't care about the kid.

The helicopter was coming back, and no doubt the men were drawing close. Someone had to have tracked him here, after all.

_Dammit._

He breathed deeply, ignoring his parched mouth. Once out there he wouldn't have time for respite. He had to keep moving.  
If he was going down, he was taking as many of them with him as he could.

"Stay," he managed to rasp out. He pushed the kid's shoulder roughly, almost losing his own balance before catching himself. "Stay."

He crept towards the cave opening, peering out, and then dashed out into the sunlight with a roar of defiance.

Gunfire missed the Wolverine by centimeters. He sprinted across the open land, catching one bullet in his shoulder that normally wouldn't have made him miss a step. But he was already weak and off-balance, and he staggered.

But the pain spurred rage, and adrenaline pumped into his veins, feeding his fury.

He could smell them—all around, all ready for him. There was a focus, a bitter stink to their hated scent that had been missing last time.

He'd killed so many of them. Their business was personal, now.

But it'd been personal for him all along.

He dove, darting behind trees and rocks—using the land to hide him and shield him as bullets spattered around him. He was dizzy, but he had to keep moving—had to be more cautious, now. The bullet he'd caught was burning, but he wasn't healing fast enough. Fresh blood fanned down his arm and chest, smearing against the old.

There.

The three soldiers had been talking into the radios, watching for him, their guns ready.

They had enough time to look shocked as Wolverine ran at them—one of them had enough time to raise his gun, but not fast enough to do him any good.

_Ch-chchchchchchchchchit!_

Gunfire shot at him from another group, running from downwind. Bullets slammed into his back and he grabbed the body of the man he'd killed and used it as a shield as he bolted forward, snarling. Bullets shot through the corpse and Wolverine dropped it, diving forward to take them.

"AAAARRGHHHH!"

"DIEEEEEEEE!"

Bullets tore through him—ripping clean through his chest and out his back. One shot through his lungs, deflecting off a rib and rebounding back out to slam into a soldier's chest. He died, his mouth agape in shock.

Wolverine staggered, nearly falling as he tore the body of the last man off of his claws. The radio sputtered beneath him.

"_—cave. He went back there for a reason—"_

Damn!

A helicopter roared towards him, and as Wolverine whirled to face it a spear rammed through him, splitting out his back.

He snapped the spear, and the end jerked out of his grip, dangling along after the helicopter. But not before the pull of the rope had jerked him clean off his feet.

He fell three feet out of the air onto his back, landing hard. He rolled to all fours, spitting out blood.

They weren't getting as close now. Probably lost too many of their cannon fodder already. Trying to catch him and rope him up, rather than chase him and bleed him out.

Not going to happen.

The helicopter was making another pass. He turned and ran.

He could smell more men downwind, but they didn't matter right now.

He retraced his steps, ignoring the blood now running freely from his chest. He was having trouble breathing, and spots drifted before his eyes. But it couldn't matter.

Bullets and shouts followed him as he bolted up the slope. He snarled, hating to run away, hating the pain . . . .

_The kid._

No time.

Four soldiers were approaching the cave, and as one drew to the entrance Wolverine roared, sprinting towards them. He was too far to reach them, but his appearance jolted the men's attentions towards him. The cave was forgotten.

"HE'S HERE!"

No time to duck, to hide—he ran right at them, bullets jerking through him, blinding him, killing him. He didn't care.

The soldiers were dead in seconds.

Wolverine fell to his knees, his head ringing, his heart pumping for all its worth as his flesh crawled back over his wounds—more slowly, now. It made his vision turn red, threatened to turn it black, but he fought it. He snarled.

The helicopter came around again.

Wolverine struggled to stand, blood blinding his eyes, streaming from his mouth, choking him—to face it for the last time. The helicopter ran low—he could see the sniper's goggles, and saw the pin of the grenade fall from the open door.

The helicopter exploded.

Wolverine threw himself down as fiery shrapnel rained from the sky. He stared as it twisted and fell into the trees below, exploding in a ball of heat.

Footsteps sounded behind him and he turned sharply, his claws ready . . . to see the kid run to his side, a glowing card perched between his fingers.

"If Gambit gonna die, mon ami, he gon die on his feet," he declared, his pale young face determined.

Wolverine responded by tackling him. Gambit went down hard with a sharp curse, which was quickly cut off as gunfire streaked over his head. Wolverine hunched over him, shielding him. A bullet slammed into Wolverine's chest, and another skimmed his back. Blood splattered on Remy's face.

"Damn, Canuck," his voice squeaked as Wolverine leaped to his feet again, bolting out towards the snipers. He dove into the trees, and screams and frantic machine-gun fire echoed his snarls.

Gambit rose slowly, dropping the bent card in his hand and pulling out another one. He heard a sound to the side and turned sharply to see three soldiers break out of the trees.

He let his card fly.

The paper whizzed through the air, hitting the snow right in front of the armored troops. They never knew what hit them.

The ground exploded in front of them, with a force that threw them all back. Gambit swore as he scrambled to his feet, taking three cards between his fingers and letting them fly as he saw shadows move in the trees towards them.

One hit a tree, blasting it clean over and making black-shadowed figures scramble out of the way. Wolverine darted forward, keen on them as the scattered in confusion at this new and unknown threat.

Bullets flew wildly, and Gambit pulled back, peering around a tree to throw another card.

Radio's crackled in the snow and he looked down to see the four shredded bodies. His eyes widened and he stepped back.

"Mon dieu," he breathed, putting a hand to his mouth as he turned a shade paler.

_"—THE HELL'S GOING ON DOWN THERE?" _someone roared over the radio.

A sound shook Remy out of his shock and he turned sharply, a card ready, but held it as Wolverine reappeared, blood-drenched, his teeth bared.

"KID, DOWN!"

Remy threw himself to the ground as bullets passed over his head. Wolverine ran forward, changing the soldiers' focuses, and Gambit threw a card, blasting them back before Wolverine got to them. But Wolverine didn't stop. He dove in, and Gambit felt his stomach flop.

He didn't want to see this. The guys were unconscious already . . . .

"Wolverine—!" he shouted. Wolverine whipped around, blood flicking from his skin.

A bullet caught the kid by the shoulder, spinning him with the force. He fell back with a cry.

_Kid!_

Wolverine charged. Soldiers opened fire at him, but he was beyond even pain now. Rage coursed through his whole being.

_How—dare—they—hurt—him!_

The soldiers scattered—smart, but not fast enough. Wolverine sliced through them in seconds, moving faster than they could react. They fell, screaming.

Wolverine ripped into them again, and again—shredding him in his wild rage. A sound drew his head up, his teeth bared.

He ducked as another helicopter roared overhead.

A spear shot from the helicopter, and Wolverine hesitated.

The spear smashed clean through his gut. The rope grew taut, and yanked him off his feet.

Perfect.

He snarled, grabbing a hold of the rope as he lifted above the trees. He ripped the spear out of him, letting it fall as he scrambled up the rope.

"Shit!" the spear-shooter swore. "Shoot him, dammit! Shoot him!"

The sniper opened fire with one of his buddies, but even as the bullets bounced off his skull and dug into his face and torso, Wolverine grinned. He was up the rope in seconds, catching the spear-shooter's foot and flinging him out the door, not even bothering to use his claws. He screamed all the way down.

Wolverine didn't even look back, but lunged into the 'copter, slicing through the sniper's gun, cutting its barrage short. The sniper fell back, trying to scamper away from the shredded remains of his gun as he scrambled for his pistol at his belt.

His pal already had his gun out and firing. Wolverine hardly felt the bullets anymore. Pain had vanished, and all he felt was a rush.

He darted at them, killing the shooter at once before grabbing the sniper and throwing him at the wall. He slumped down to the floor and lay still.

Pilot's frantic shouts into his radio sounded distant as he turned sharply, ready to end this. The copilot had raised his own gun, and as Wolverine turned it caught him clean in the chest.

Except it wasn't a bullet.

Electricity arched through him, streaking through his bones. He jerked back, almost falling into the chairs as it shook him, but he reared up, ignoring the pain, forcing his convulsing muscles forward.

He swung at the copilot, his action wild and uncontrolled. He cut flesh, but managed to reach the taser and tear it in two with a last jolt of energy that turned his vision white with pain. He fell to his knees, struggling against the reeling of the helicopter so as to not fall over completely.

A gun slid across the floor to bump against his hand. Wolverine's fingers curled around it automatically and he stood, his motions still jerky from the shock.

He'd never held a gun before—didn't even know how it worked. But though his arm shook as he raised it, his grip on it was comfortable, natural. The pilot swore.

Bullets slammed into the console, sending sparks flying. Alarms blared, lights flashed, and the helicopter spun out of control.

Wolverine snagged the door and he leaped away from the careening machine into the open air. The helicopter twisted out of control, then dove and crashed into the mountainside.

Wolverine didn't have time to appreciate his efforts. He dropped like an asteroid, catching the tops of the trees, and then slamming through the branches, ripping the flesh from his bones. He slammed through a tree, toppling it clean over, and his crashed into the ground, digging a deep furrow from his landing.

He crawled from the pit, his head ringing. His arms almost collapsed beneath him, but he refused to let them as he dragged himself out, and then listened.

There were no more helicopters. He could hear men shouting—running. But none were coming close. A truck was gunned down the mountainside.

They were running away. Regrouping, maybe, or retreating for now. Half of him wanted to follow, still raging with the rush of blood despite the pain in his body.

Instead he stood, bruised and bloodied from head to toe, and somehow half-ran, half-staggered back towards the cave.

The kid lay there where he had fallen. His eyes were shut, and his face pale as death.

Wolverine collapsed on his knees behind him, his shaking hands following their own accord as they felt the kid's throat.

He could feel his heartbeat, but it was too fast, and too weak.

He ripped open the kid's shirt, and growled when he saw the scarlet staining his young chest.

The bullet'd hit his shoulder, and it hadn't come back out.

"Kid," he growled, shaking him. He needed to wake up. They couldn't stay here any longer—not now. They had to run. "Kid."

He didn't stir, and they didn't have time to wait.

Wolverine picked up the kid, stumbling as he put him over his shoulder and limped away as quickly as he could.

TBC . . .


	24. Freaks

I think I'm in love.

If you haven't seen "Dark Knight" yet, it's the best superhero movie ever imo. I was expecting a good entertaining action movie, but it wasn't anything like I expected. It's perhaps the best movie ever, with the most amazing cast, wonderful storyline and action, and a boatload of morals and issues of interest without having them pounded over your head like other superhero movies that try to draw the "right/wrong" line. I won't tell you how many times I've seen it since it came out, but I'll say that the records that are being smashed in the box office are due to people like me. ;)

Anyway, enough ranting. I think I'm starting to sound a bit pitiful, and you don't care about my personal soap-boxes.

I really do have a life. Really. Most people who know me don't even know what a terrible, shameless geek I am. I am really quite normal most of the time.

I am so ridiculously sad. Moving on.

Thanks for all the reviews. Those who didn't, please do. And everyone who stops by-enjoy the chapter.

* * *

Chapter 24: Freaks

* * *

_The whole fight with those clowns is probably the thing I remember best from those days. Woke up parts a'me that I didn't even know I had._

_Hell, and who am I kidding? 'Sides the fact that I was shot six times to hell and back, I guess I'd be lyin' if I didn't admit that the whole thing was kinda fun. Woulda been real fun, if there hadn't been the kid to worry about._

_But maybe 'fun' ain't the right word to use, 'cause the Wolverine doesn't really understand fun. But it was tough as nails pullin' myself away from that fight and runnin'. Coulda kept fightin' until I dropped, or there wasn't nobody left to fight._

_The fact is that if the kid hadn't been there to worry about, parta me woulda been having the time of my life._

* * *

_Now:_

Logan had heard the taxi pull into the drive and had headed straight to the entryway, taking the stairs two at a time to the first floor. Ororo walked in after him, immediately pinning him with a suspicious stare as she saw him standing there.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Greetin' the newbies," Logan replied. Innocent as that was, Storm's suspicion grew, if anything.

"I told you already, Logan, Alex is nothing like Scott. Give him a chance."

Logan didn't say anything to that, but just folded his arms. There was a knock at the door.

"Don't frighten them off before they settle in," Storm threatened. "I'm serious, Logan."

She glared at him, but that was all she had time to do before the door opened. Logan stepped back, eyeing the newcomers with a careful scrutiny.

Green hair. And here came the other one—light hair carefully combed, every hair in place . . . . Yep. They were here.

You could tell a lot about a person by their hair, Logan decided.

"Ororo! Oh, you look absolutely wonderful," green-hair—Lorna—said cheerfully, coming forward to give a friendly hug to the weather goddess. Yep. That green hair was natural, however that worked. He'd've smelled the dye if it weren't.

"Hello, Storm," Alex said from behind her. His manner was friendly, and Logan was a little disappointed that he wasn't able to catch a scent of the famed Summer's prick-ish-ness, despite his hair style. Maybe Storm was right, after all.

Too bad. It'd been fun watching One-Eye get his panties in a bunch whenever Logan got bored. Too easy, too irresistible, and too damn entertaining.

Logan took a stand leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his wife beater as he appraised the new arrivals critically.

"It's good to have you back," Storm said to Alex. "I'll have to introduce you to the students. We've grown so much since you were last here." Alex had caught Logan's eye, and lifted a curious eyebrow. Logan didn't move, but stared right back. "Oh. And this is Logan. He's been helping out here for a number of months now. He covers physical training and conditioning."

Alex smiled and came forward, extending a hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Logan."

"'s just Logan," he replied, not moving to accept the handshake.

There was a moment of awkward silence, and Lorna looked at Logan as is she couldn't tell if he was a joke or a threat. Storm stepped forward. "Logan is a bit unique in his choice of welcomes. Shall I show you around?"

Lorna smiled—almost too broadly, to cover the awkwardness. "I'd love that," she said, picking up her bags.

"Then here—I'll show you to your rooms, and you can drop of your things before we continue on. I'll show you around, and you'll have time to wash up and rest a bit before dinner."

The couple agreed, and Storm ushered them out in front of her. She made as if to follow, then swept back, turning sharply to glare and shake a finger at him. "Logan," she said, between exasperated and upset.

"He's as awkward as One-Eye was," Logan near-chortled.

"Everyone is, if you give them cause to be," Ororo retorted. She slapped his arm. "Behave."

"Don't I always?" Logan replied, jumping up slightly to sit on the small decorative table next to the wall. It wobbled dangerously, but held under his weight.

Storm wisely chose not to reply, and went on after the newcomers.

* * *

Logan took care of his afternoon classes—giving the kids a good workout before sending them to shower before dinner. Nearly all of them were limping or rubbing various parts of their bodies gingerly as they slunk in.

He smelled someone wet and wearing far-too-much lavender perfume, and paused to grimace and rub his nose before walking in.

The female version of the jolly green giant was standing there, having come in apparently just moments before. He could tell from her scent that she'd just gotten out of the shower, but the scent of lavender suddenly slammed him in the face, actually making him stop dead-still like he'd run flat into a wall of adamantium.

Did she _bathe_ in that stuff?

She tried with another smile, looking over at the bruised and grimacing children who were now digging into their food.

"I take it class went well?" she asked.

He sneezed in response. "Wonderful," he near-choked, trying to breathe as little as possible.

"Does the staff sit together or—"

"Nah. Jus' wherever," Logan interrupted hastily, his eyes beginning to burn. Ack! She _must_ be some sort of spy or something—she knew his weakness, and was still acting as innocent as a virgin, damn her. What else was she up to?

He turned away, ready to walk right back out of the hall.

"Are you okay, Mr. Logan?"

Storm walked in with Summers before he had a chance to recover from his three next sneezes.

"Goddess, Logan. Are you all right?" she asked, pulling out a handkerchief as he nearly ran straight into her.

He waved away the handkerchief, his eyes watering.

"What happ—what is that smell?" Ororo asked, the thick lavender enough to cause even her to wrinkle her nose.

Lorna blushed. "Oh! I just spilled some of my perfume—is it really that bad?"

Was she joking? He'd smelled corpses with a less deadly smell.

But of course he was fine. He was just being slowly tortured to death by greenie's over-potent deathscent.

He sneezed again, trying to come up with an excuse to run out howling that wouldn't damage his reputation.

He was saved by the sound of screams.

"Aaah!"

_Thud!_

"Kitty!"

"Oh, that is _so _not right!"

"Ugh!"

He took the opportunity to practically run from the door towards the far table, wiping his eyes and quickly putting on a disciplining, no-nonsense demeanor.

"All right," Logan growled, pushing his way through, though his gruffness was slightly dampened when he had to stop for another sneeze before he got to his goal. Kitty had fallen off her chair, and now a growing space was clear around the cause of the disturbance. Angel had actually taken flight and now was perched on a windowsill out of reach. Jubilee looked disgusted, and Bobby standing on his chair, looking ready to flee. Even Rogue looked a little green.

Kylee stood there, her fur-like hair lying flat and her eyes wide and downcast as her chin quivered. Something dark—like drying ketchup—was smeared slightly over her down-soft chin, and in her hand she held a limp rat—its neck clearly snapped, it's head lolling, and a good patch of its neck clearly eaten away. As he stood there, taking in the scene, it fell from Kylee's shaking hand with a sickening "plop" on the floor.

"I-I'm sorry," she whimpered, tears rising up in her emerald-green eyes.

Wolverine didn't pause to think—he wasn't a thinking man, after all. Never had been. He just stepped forward, snatched the rat with one hand and the girl in the other, then took a ragged tear of a bite from the rat's neck, ignoring completely the gasps and strangled gags from the students. He distantly heard Lorna screech softly from near the doorway.

"Not a bad catch, Furball," he said. And it really wasn't. In his experience, rats were scrawny, stringy, and had too-little meat on them, but this one had probably lived an unusually long and pleasant life living off the barn's endless supply of grain. Still not fresh venison, but he swallowed it without too much effort. He looked around at the shocked faces around him and resisted the urge to growl at them. It helped that it was still warm. There was little he hated more than cold rat meat.

He caught Jubilee's eye, who was staring at him with a hand over her mouth like she was about to be sick, and then held the rat out to Kitty, who was frozen in the exact same position.

"Want a taste, Kitty?" he asked.

Her eyes widened. She shook her head, not moving her hand from her mouth.

Logan didn't look away from her, even as her eyes dropped. The whole hall had gone silent. "Rogue?"

"No thank you, Logan," she said softly.

Logan grunted, continuing to try and catch the student's eyes and stare them down, but most everyone had suddenly found the floor tiles to be very interesting.

He nodded, then turned around and looked down at Kylee. "You got a seat for us, or am I gonna have to drink my brew standin'?" he asked, still holding the limp rat as he put one hand no Kylee's shoulder and helped steer her out of the center of the room.

They took their place at the end of the counter, and Logan plopped the rat next to his beer before reaching over the grab a waffle for the kid, and light up his cigar.

The other kids didn't move at first, and he didn't look at them again. Rogue moved to sit back down, and Bobby slowly came down off of his chair. There was a soft flutter and a small breeze as Warren opened his wings and lighted down back on the floor.

Lorna stared from the doorway, unmoving, one hand still over her mouth as she stared at him, her face pale against her green hair.

Logan pulled the syrup closer so Kylee could reach it, taking a long draw from his cigar and ignoring them all.

* * *

_Then:_

The stink of man and guns had long since faded by the time Wolverine even considered pausing. He found a broad-boughed pine and dragged both of them beneath the shielding branches. He eased the kid over his shoulder, but stumbled, nearly dropping him as he laid him down on the dirt.

Damn.

Blood had stained down the kid's shirt and coat, smeared and dripping scarlet. Wolverine dropped down beside him, relaxing a hair as he breathed deeply.

Most of the blood was his own—he knew the scent well all-too-well—just smeared over the kid from being tossed of his shoulder.

Still, the kid still reeked of his own blood. Wolverine pulled back his shirt, finding the bullet hole. It was thick with clotting blood, but red had soaked his shoulder and a small stream had run down the pale of Gambit's chin into his hair as he'd hung over Wolverine's shoulder.

He was still bleeding.

This was wrong. Wolverine might still be bleeding, burning—and he thought he could still feel a bullet lodged between two of his ribs, though he wasn't sure—and his whole body felt alive and crawling with fire. He was shaking and his vision swam, though he couldn't let the darkness take him yet. But the kid . . . this was just one bullet, and he didn't even know if it'd been pushed back out yet.

Why wasn't the kid healing?

Was it because he'd been sick? Or 'cause he was a kid? Maybe it just took him longer.

The kid's pulse was weak, and he wasn't getting any better. Part of him told him that if he didn't do something soon, it'd be too late.

The kid'd be dead.

_Why wasn't he healing?_

Wolverine ran a hand through his lengthening hair, pushing it from his face. Soaked as it was with blood, it actually stayed there.

_You a freak like me._

The kid'd said that, days ago when they'd first met.

But that wasn't right, was it?

They might both be freaks, but Wolverine couldn't throw cards and make them explode. He'd tried while the kid was asleep in the cave, throwing it just like the kid and hiding behind a tree for the blast . . . that never came.

It was strangely anticlimactic when the cards had just fallen to the snow and lay there, and Wolverine had to admit that he was impressed at how the kid threw them in the first place. For the life of him, he couldn't get those damn cards to go where he wanted.

He shook his head barely, the memory as strange as the feeling he had got standing there behind the tree, bracing himself, only to find that the cards were as harmless as anything.

One thing he knew for sure, he wasn't ever telling anyone about it.

Kind of a strange thought to have, since he didn't really have anyone to tell it to, but there it was.

He couldn't blow things up like the kid, and the kid . . . the kid couldn't heal.

He was like the soldiers. Like the rabbit, and the deer. He was like the wolves.

With that realization, Wolverine looked down at the blood seeping from the wound to the ground beneath, and felt cold.

It was bad. He didn't know how he knew—it wasn't like one shot was very much different than another for him—but he did know it.

If he didn't do something, the kid was going to die.

Wolverine ripped the kid's shirt, pressing it to the wound, where it was quickly soaked. He bound it there, tying it tight, trying to stop the bleeding.

The bleeding showed through the rough binding, but it slowed. Still, the kid didn't wake, and just lay there like a limp doll. His pulse grew increasingly frantic.

Wolverine stood, glancing at the sky, but there was no sound of soldiers, no sound of pursuing helicopters. Maybe they'd finally gotten the idea that they couldn't kill him, couldn't catch him.

_Why did they want to anyway?_

He wiped a shaking arm across his face, smearing a fresh dribble of blood from his mouth across his chin.

He hadn't thought about it for a long while. He used to think that they wanted to eat him—after all, food was scarce during the winter, and he hadn't had anything else to think.

But now . . . .

There was something else. Another reason they were hunting him, 'cause they'd lost too many of their own, and still kept trying no matter that they knew they couldn't kill him. They hunted him for something else.

And no matter how much he'd hated the thought of being caught and eaten down to his bones, this was much worse. It settled in his gut, solid and cold.

No time for that now.

The kid wasn't healing. Was he broken, like a splintered tree? Maybe he couldn't heal at all; maybe a little scratch was enough to hurt him and never heal, but just give him pain until he died.

No, that didn't feel right.

He was getting better from being sick. He could get better from this.

Wolverine turned away, looking down at his bloodstained hands. A glint of metal still showed at the end of one of his fingertips, and he was missing three fingernails.

And besides, while he'd been fighting he'd known how to kill. He'd known he wasn't wounding. Just like the men after him. Both sides'd been aiming to kill.

The kid wasn't dead yet.

Wolverine crouched down next to the kid again. The kid was cold, and his heartbeat faint.

The bullet was stuck inside. If he pulled it out, would that help him heal?

He drew his fingers into a fist, but didn't pop his claws. He paused.

Wolverine looked down at his clenched hand, unclenching it slowly and turning it over and looking at it again. Blood stained his whole arm, his face, his chest. A fair bit of it wasn't his, but enough was.

Blood. The kid needed more blood.

He ripped back the rough bandage and popped his claws on his right hand. He held his left arm over the bloody wound, and sliced cleanly through his wrist.

A stream of blood ran down his hand, and Wolverine turned over his arm, letting his blood drip down to add to the scarlet gore of the kid's shoulder, but after a meager stream it immediately stopped—still red and bleeding, but the skin healed. Wolverine growled softly, turning his arm over again just as the self-inflicted wound sealed up.

Not enough. He didn't know if this was going to work, but if it was going to . . . he needed a lot.

He took the soiled bandage, wiping away the congealing blood around the wound. He prodded at the inflamed and torn flesh carefully.

Bullet must be caught against his scapula.

Wolverine gritted his teeth, retracting two of his claws. He inched the last one in, pulling back the kid's flesh to get to the bullet. Blood pooled around his claw, but he dug in carefully, soaking what was left of the kid's shirt through as he tried to see.

There it was—lodged in good. The bone'd fractured around the bullet, burying it in deep. Wolverine slid his claw carefully next to the bullet, trying to pry the tip between it and the bone.

There. He shifted his claw, and after a small pull, the bullet dislodged. He retracted his claw, holding open the flesh as he reached in, pulling the slug out. He threw it away from them, immediately pressing his hand to the wound, which was now bleeding in earnest again.

Wolverine lifted his arm again, popping all of his claws and ripping down his forearm so blood fell like rain. His blood mixed with the kid's, and he sliced again, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Didn't matter, anyway.

His arm healed more slowly this time, and he ripped in a third time, then immediately threw out his good arm to catch himself from losing his balance and toppling right over. He growled softly, balancing on his knees while the world began to tilt beneath him. He grabbed the bloodied tear of the kid's shirt and wrapped it tight around the wound, then slumped back, leaning against the tree trunk as he shut his eyes.

Something was buzzing in his ear, and he wanted to flick at it—tell it to go away.

Not worth the effort.

Blood was trickling from his nose onto his chest again, curling through his chest hair and around his stained dogtags. The pain was stopping though. At least it was feeling farther away.

Damned buzzing was getting worse. Flies, maybe?

Maybe they'd swarm all over him, like bees.

He'd seen them buzzing over a corpse before, and he stank like one.

Flies. Not bees. Whatever.

God, he was tired.

He just wanted to rest—to sleep. Maybe never wake up.

But he couldn't.

Couldn't wait.

They had to keep moving.

Had to . . .

. . . . keep . . . .

. . . . moving . . . .

. . . couldn't . . . .

. . . .

Wolverine's head slumped down onto his chest, and he didn't so much fall asleep as dive from the plane of consciousness into oblivion.

TBC . . .


	25. No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

I don't know why, but for some reason this chapter was really hard to write. The last five+ chapters have all but written themselves. Maybe it's just that I'm getting spoiled.

Maybe it's just because school is starting again so soon.

Anyway, the reviews helped more than ever for this chapter. Thanks a bunch, and please continue to review! Those who haven't, please just drop a line or two!

We're setting up more real fun stuff, people. More reviews=faster updates. ;)

* * *

Chapter 25: No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

* * *

_Thud-thump._

_. . . ._

_Thud-thump._

_ . . . ._

_Thud-thump. Th-thump._

_. . . ._

_Damn noise. He wished it'd go away. He was trying to sleep._

_Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump._

_It was waking him up, drumming in his ears, his chest, his bones. He felt bruised from its pounding, and every beat made the pain clearer, sharper._

_He just wanted to rest._

_Th-thump. Th-thump._

_He hated the sound. He heard it every time he woke, now. Sometimes slow—sluggish, like now, each beat like a punch to his chest. Other times it was frantic—pattering away and leaving him gasping at the weight of it._

_So often now he wished only for silence._

_Th-thump._

_It was bringing him closer to wakefulness, now. He could feel the cold, sticky cement under his arms, against his chest where he'd fallen—feel the air stirring against his bare back, the stickiness as his hair clung to his face wetly. His ears were roaring—his hearing fading in and out. Were those voices? Maybe just voices in his head. Voices of the past, murmuring like waves of blood in his head. Blood and a bitterness he could not identify lay thick in his mouth._

_His insides burned with healing. The devil knew what they'd done to him this time._

_Even his teeth hurt. Had they pulled them again out? Or maybe this time it'd just been an accident._

_If a bullet to the mouth or the butt of a rifle to the face could be called an accident._

_They had grown back, though. How long had he been out?_

_Th-thump._

_Wish it was longer._

_He floated in a haze of agony. His insides felt turned inside-out, his eyeballs burned, and as he shifted the smallest bit he felt a dozen bullets shift inside him, and more slide in the blood and filth on the cold floor beneath him. He immediately went still, hoping the darkness would take him again._

_There was no point in moving anyway. There was nowhere to go, and wakefulness only meant more pain—more humiliation—more degradation._

_He was nothing here. Not a man. Not even an animal._

_Th-thump. Th-thump._

_Damn heart. Wish it would just—_

_"Fold."_

_"Straight flush."_

_"Damn."_

_The bored soldier slapped down his cards and turned, lifting his gun and without even bothering to aim, shot three plugs into the corner of the cell at the man lying there. Logan didn't even twitch as two of them slammed into him—chest and leg. Third one bounced off the wall, but he couldn't even muster up enough energy to sneer at the guy's bad aim._

_Didn't matter. The roar of blood grew louder, blocking out the sounds, the feelings, the world. The beats grew distant, and then slowly built up again as the roaring waves retreated back behind the drums._

_Th . . . thump._

_"Again?"_

_"Why not? Nothing else to do." They dealt out the cards again. The sound of the cards moving from hand to hand sounded loud. He wanted to cover his ears—to hear nothing at all._

_He felt eyes on him—but did that matter? There were always eyes on him now—watching him, picking him apart. Almost worse than the pain._

_"He even feel anything anymore?"_

_An answering grunt. "Dunno if he felt anything in the first place."_

_"Usually a lot more fun, though. Hasn't moved since they brought him back here."_

_"They musta tried something new. Kinda curious what they did. Tired even Wolverine out." A pause. "You should have seen him when they brought him back from the lab yesterday. Near ripped off his own hand, trying to get out of those chains. Freaky, man. He's like an animal. Almost got Johnson for good with his teeth—his _teeth_. Grabbed his arm and ripped a big chunk right off. Had to get flighted out."_

_"Crazy devil."_

_Th-thump. Th-thump. The two newest bullets were beginning to inch their way out of him. Hurt like hell._

_Maybe that's where he was. He deserved it._

_"Who d'ya think he used to be?"_

_"Dunno. Not like it matters, now. Nothing human left in him."_

_"Stryker says he volunteered."_

_"Stryker's a bastard. Nobody'd volunteer for this. 'Specially not the Wolverine. Can't see him volunteering to raise a finger t'save his own mother."_

_Wolverine?_

_What was that name?_

_It spoke of happy times, sad times. It made him want to smile from the memories—no, to weep. To rage._

Sabretooth, you animal bastard.

_Animal . . . ._

Oh God, oh God, oh God . . . .

_No, no, no . . . ._

_Th-thud—th-thud—th-thud . . . ._

_Heart pounding furiously now, pain roaring through him with adrenaline. He opened his eyes, staring dully at the puddled blood on the floor._

_"Look who's awake. What you looking at, freak? What are you looking at?" The guard fired another shot, and blood splattered against the back wall as it passed clean through the feral man's body._

_"Something going on down here, private?"_

_Wolverine shifted slightly at the new voice. Chains clinked around him, dragging him down._

_He knew that voice. Knew it and hated it, even as blood roared in his ears, and his heartbeat pounded him into the floor._

_Th-thump . . . . thump-thump . . . .Thump._

_Darkness closing in around him, and silence . . . beautiful silence—_

_Beautiful . . . ._

_Darkness. Silence._

_Hands grabbed the chains that held him, jerking him back against the wall and back into consciousness as they dragged his arms up above his head, securing the chains to hold him there. He lifted his head weakly, slime and blood dripping into his eyes. At the motion blood rushed in his ears, threatening to pull him under again._

_"My, my, Wolverine. You are a mess," Styker spoke. Logan could smell the man better than see him; his vision was spotted and blurred. Maybe they'd popped his eyes out again, too, and he was still healing._

_The bastard walked forward slowly, his boots sticking to the blood-thick floor. He nodded to a soldier, who grabbed his hair and pulled back his head. Logan snarled softly, baring his teeth as Stryker strode forward. The man looked down at him in disgust._

_"Just look at you now. You're a _freak_. An animal. A killer, finally revealed for what you are. After Vietnam did you really think you could just walk away?" He hefted his pistol, his voice soft and absurdly calm. "But that's all you've ever been, isn't it, Wolverine? An animal in man's clothing—a _mutant freak._"_

_"Damn you," Logan rasped out. His mouth tasted of blood and his saliva was thick with it—his tongue swollen from dehydration._

_WHACK!_

_The butt of the gun smashed into his throat, crushing his esophagus. Logan gasped, choking on his own blood. Stryker grabbed his hair, holding his head up as fresh blood leaked from between his teeth. A gurgled growl bubbled up from his throat._

_"Talk now, you son of a bitch," Stryker said. When Logan stayed silent, he shook him, flicking blood on his stainless uniform. "TALK!"_

_Logan remained silent, his eyes dilated almost completely black and his bloodied teeth still bared, but like a fatally wounded animal—trapped, and too weak to fight back, but refusing to admit it._

_He was sinking—thank God. Sinking back into oblivion. Taking him away from here again—but forever. He'd be back, damn him. He'd always be back._

_Someday he'd gut this bastard._

_The hand let go of his hair and he slumped bonelessly against the chains._

_"Clean him up. The professor wants him."_

_"Already?"_

_"They're done with preliminaries. We wanted to see if the Wolverine had a limit."_

_"Guess we found it."_

_Stryker laughed distantly. "Found it? Private, we've been trying almost as hard as we could to kill that stubborn bastard for the past three months, day in and day out, and that animal's not only breathing, but give him five minutes to heal up and he'll be ready to gut any fool who thinks they can take him. Wolverine doesn't _have_ a limit." He turned away from them. "Clean him up."_

* * *

_Now:_

"Wolvie—_WOLVIE!"_

Logan jerked upright, seeing red.

A snarl ripped from his throat—like metal tearing metal.

_They_∙_were_∙_all_∙_around_∙_all_∙_around_∙_watching_∙_hurting_∙_pain_∙_PAIN!_

_SNIKT!_

_What_∙_have_∙_you_∙_done_∙_to_∙_me_∙_what_∙_have_∙_you_∙_done?Kill_∙_you_∙_kill_∙_you_∙_BASTARDS_

"Wolvie, it's al'right!"

Oh God. Kylee.

_Blood∙and∙pain∙and∙bile∙knives∙cutting∙him∙open∙like∙a∙fish∙bleeding∙out∙run∙away∙run∙no∙kill∙them∙_KILL

_Slash across the throat, one down through the heart, spilling red, hot blood. Hear the heartbeat stagger to a stop_∙_stop∙stop∙STOP!_

_Th-thud∙th-thud∙th-thud∙∙∙∙_

_SNAKT._

He leaned over just in time to empty his stomach over the side of the bed.

_Dammit!_

A small hand touched his shoulder and he recoiled, nearly falling clean off the bed into his own vomit.

"Wolvie—"

It was Kylee. Just Kylee. What the hell was she doing here? Oh God, what was she doing here?

_Thud∙thud∙thud∙thud_

He stood sharply, almost falling out of bed in his haste to distance himself from the girl. He stepped across the room and stared at the wall. He wiped his face with a shaking hand, sweat dripping onto his already-soaked t-shirt. He clenched his jaw, shutting his eyes tight.

_A dream, dammit._

They'd been getting like this, since Bloodscream. More vivid. More real, and they were sticking with him longer after waking up. And frankly, he was getting sick to hell of it.

Memories, or dreams?

_Th-thud. Th-thud._

But oh, God—the eyes.

He could still feel the eyes—watching him, weighing him, picking him apart. A low snarl rumbled in his throat and he turned sharply.

"What the _hell_ are you doing in here?" His voice was low and close to a growl. He was ignoring the dream—it was just a dream—the pain would go away.

Kylee shrunk into the quilt. "I heard you," she whispered.

"What?"

Kylee gave a weak shrug, her eyes downcast. "You sounded hurt," she whispered.

He didn't give a damn. He didn't want to talk right now—didn't want to talk, to think. He didn't want the kid here.

_Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump._

_Shut the hell up!_

Logan turned away, wiping his face again. His teeth hurt, his throat hurt, and he had a mess on the floor to clean up.

Well, hell. At least there wasn't a rug to worry about now.

He turned and strode back to the bed. Kylee shrunk back further, but he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to the door. He pushed her out, ignoring her protests, and slammed the door behind her. He locked it and leaned against it.

A minute passed. Kylee was smart enough not to bother knocking, but she stayed on the other side of the door for a full two minutes, hissing softly to herself. He finally heard her soft footfalls pad away, and moved away from the door.

He ripped off his shirt and dropped it on the floor, not caring where it landed.

_Th-thump. Th-thump._

He was panting—breathing like he'd just sprinted a mile. Still shaking, too.

It was just a dream! Just a damn freakin' dream!

He stripped down on the way to the bathroom, closed the door behind him, and turned on the shower. He didn't wait before stepping beneath the spray and putting his face towards it, intent on washing away the stink of his own fear—washing it all away.

_Liquid sprayed towards him—high-power, blasted from a hose that bruised to the bone. It hit him, knocking him clean against the wall—pinning him there. It filled his senses—sharp, bitter, burning. Despite his still-healing voice, he howled as acid ate away through his skin, burning away his hair, his flesh, eating to his bones . . . . _

"AAARRrghh!"

Logan jerked back away from the spray of water. His foot slipped, and like a catapult he flew back, bashing his head against the wall of the shower. Tile shattered and blood swirled down the drain.

Logan swore, putting a hand to his head, but the blood was already being washed away; the wound was already well on its way to be healed. He reached out blindly to slam off the spray of water and blinked at the gaping hole in the wall from his head.

_Dammit._

His hair dripped in front of his face and he pushed it back, irritated. He stood, stepping shakily of the shower, trailing a puddle of pink-tinged water onto the floor.

He leaned against the sink, staring at his own reflection unseeingly.

_What the hell had that been?_

Had he fallen asleep without realizing it?

He looked back over at the shower. He stepped in slowly. He clenched his jaw and turned back on the water, then stepped under the spray unflinchingly

_Acid ate into him, running down his face, eating into his eyes, his nose, his throat. His voice gave out—the pain raging on long afterwards. But it didn't matter—not to him, not to them._

_It wouldn't go away until he was clean, and even then . . . this was only the beginning._

Logan shut his eyes, refusing the memory of pain. It was gone now; it didn't matter anymore.

* * *

Logan strode out of the bathroom in the nude to see Kylee sitting curled up on his bed, looking content.

The vomit on the floor was gone.

He could still smell it—the kid hadn't used any cleaner, and she'd stuffed what looked like two whole rolls of toilet paper into his already-heaping trash bin.

He stopped stand-still as she looked up, her eyes growing round as coins.

Logan grabbed his sweats from where he'd dropped them on the floor and turning around to pull them on. Not like he cared about that sort of thing, but this was Kylee.

"Wolvie?" Kylee asked, all innocence, though her eyes were still a bit wide as she stared at him.

"How the hell did you get back in here?" Logan asked, but his voice was just tired. He was sick of this, and it wasn't the damn kid's damn fault.

Kylee shrugged, looking away from him. "Ms. Monroe taught me."

"Huh?" Logan dry-washed his face again, rubbing the flat of his palms into his eyes. He could almost still feel the burning.

"To pick the locks," Kylee explained guilelessly. "Are you all right, Wolvie?"

He looked up at her. "_Storm_ taught you to pick locks?"

Kylee shrugged. "She said she learned when she was my age, and I jus' watched her when she was teaching Rogue. I been practicin'."

What other kind of crap did the kid pick up around here? Well, what the hell? There were worse things a kid could be getting into.

Logan grunted, grabbing a relatively clean shirt from where it was draped over a chair and pulling it on. Kylee slid from the bed and walked to his side, a bit unsteady as she rubbed her eyes sleepily. He glanced at the clock, blinking at the glowing numbers: 4:15 am. Damn.

"You dropped this, Wolvie," Kylee said softly, holding up her hand. His eyepatch rested in her small palm.

Oh. Of course the kid looked completely unsurprised that Logan had both eyes hale and whole, even though he'd continued to wear the patch around the kids since his run-in with Bloodscream.

Sometimes he wondered if this kid was the densest thing west of the Blob, or whether she could give Beast a run for his money, but was sneaky enough to not flash it around. How much did she see around here?

"Don't need it anymore," he muttered. But he took it anyway, stuffing it into his pocket. "Go back to sleep, kid."

"Where're you goin'?"

"Out." At her unwavering stare, he picked her up and tossed her back onto the bed. She landed lightly—cat-like in her balance. "Now get back to sleep."

Kylee fur was a bit flat—she wasn't happy with his decision, but she didn't say anything. She just nodded, settling into the covers.

Logan left the room, closing the door softly behind him. He paused, sighing and running a hand through his still-damp hair, and then slowly he headed down the darkened hallway.

* * *

He ran even farther this time, hoping that the scent of the wood and physical exertion would keep him from thinking too much. His heartbeat pounded in his chest—almost a living thing in and of itself, echoing through his bones and bouncing around his skull.

His claws itched to kill something. No bar fight would do this time, and any X-Men business would be too gentle.

What he really wanted was to find Sabretooth. That clown had a healing factor too, hadn't he? Logan could have taken that fall from the Statue of Liberty any day—surely the reeking bastard had enough of one to have recovered by now.

Logan could practically feel his claws ripping into him. Just let the animal go wild, and rip into him like the killer he was.

He stopped by the barn and dragged out a beer, draining it in seconds.

Sometimes he really hated how he couldn't get drunk.

He sat on the front porch, brooding silently until the first light of dawn began to lighten the horizon. He tossed his empty bottle into the bushes—feeling too drained to do anything else—and went back inside. He was too tired to even be angry.

He was sick of this.

Maybe he'd go back to sleep. Nah—he was done with that for now. He'd go grab his keys and take off for the day—see how much beer he could down in one day. He'd never really kept track.

Didn't care enough to count.

He was trudging past Storm's office when he smelled the stink of lavender—not so overwhelming this time, but enough—and pulled out a cigar. He lit up before continuing down the hall, drawing deep.

He was about to head up the stairs when he heard murmuring voices from the professor's office.

They were up early. It was just getting light outside.

He paused, letting smoke gather over his head, but through the senseless murmurings he thought he heard his name. He hesitated, then stepped closer. As he stopped on the other side of the door their voices carried clear as if he were standing inside right along with them.

"Come now, Ororo. We can get a decent physical education teacher anywhere—even Alex could take over. The man is an _animal_. He _ate_ a _rat, _for heaven sakes!" Lorna said, her voice hushed but intense. "I woke up half scared to death by his screams—and they were _inhuman_—like a rabid wolf, or something!"

"Lorna—"

"I don't know why Xavier let him come here in the first place," Alex said, his low voice calmer, but still serious. "I've heard stories enough about the Wolverine, Ororo, and I don't think there's a more dangerous mutant out there—including Magneto. The stories—"

Storm scoffed. "Of course he's dangerous. But you could blow up half the earth and I could bring on the next ice age. We're _all_ dangerous, and as for Magneto—he was unbalanced. Grief drove him to madness."

"And what about an excuse for a man who can't even remember his real name?" Lorna insisted. "I am serious, Ororo. Scott wrote to Alex about that . . . _man_. He's unpredictable, and even more so without the professor here to keep an eye on him."

There was a pause. "Logan does not need anyone to _keep an eye_ on him," Storm said, her voice low. "You don't know him, and I will not hear you go on about things you can't possibly understand."

"He _killed_ Jean, Storm!" Alex insisted.

Silence at that. He could almost hear Ororo's sharp intake. No one talked about that—not now, not ever.

"Hear me out, Storm," Lorna said, grim and with finality. "If he doesn't go, we do!"

There was a long silence. Logan took his cigar from his mouth—it was irreparably smashed. He crushed the rest of it in his fist as he stepped away from the door, careless of the pain of his burning flesh.

It didn't matter.

He turned back up the stairs like a shadow—silently as a ghost. He strode, in no hurry, but not taking his time either. He came to his room in the far corner of the mansion and walked in. Kylee was sitting on his floor, scribbling some nonsense picture with a bunch of crayons, still dressed in her pajamas and looking ruffled from sleep. Logan stopped, feeling an odd aching in his chest.

"Wolvie!" she cried, jumping to her feet and waving her picture excitedly for his inspection. "Look! It's me, and you!"

Stupid kid. Just a couple hours ago he'd been about to kick her out on her ass, and here she was, oblivious. Either that or she just plain didn't care.

She should have gone back to sleep. It was too early for her to be up—kid needed her sleep.

Logan took the picture, and actually took time to look at it. There were too blobs, the bigger of which he figured must be him. Other than that, the only distinguishing characteristics was that Kylee had orange ears, and he had something that looked like thick horns on the top of his head, and . . . could that be a cigar, and some smoke? Either that or it was his mouth and nose: he couldn't tell. And for some strange reason the middle of his blob was colored a scribbled blue. Maybe she was about to draw Nightcrawler or Beast, and changed her mind at the last minute.

_Th-thump. Th-thump._

Damn that dream. Made him feel hollow, sick. Like someone'd taken all the air out of his lungs, and was sitting on him, not letting him breathe.

Like there was a bullet stuck in his heart: not yet working its way out, just sitting—a lump of lead clunking around in there.

God, he felt sick.

He rubbed his chest absently.

"That's nice, darlin'," he said, kneeling down to hand it back to her. She took it, then looked back at him with serious green eyes, sensing his mood and actually responding to it this time. "Look, furball—it looks like I might have to hit the road for a little while."

"When will you be back?" Kylee asked, guileless and without worry. After all, he'd left for a little while plenty of times before, and he always came back.

Logan swallowed an unexpected lump in his throat. Dammit. He was planning on heading out soon anyway. This didn't make a difference—not really. "Not sure. Just gonna chase the wind for a little while, ya know?"

Kylee's eyes grew wider, and suddenly filled with tears. She'd seen right through him, though damn if he knew how. "You're leavin' me too, Wolvie?" she asked, her voice a hushed, tearful whisper. "You not comin' b-back, jus' like M-mr. S-s-scott, and M-m-s. J-Jeannie?" Tears spilled from her eyes, dripping down her down-furred cheeks. She fell onto her knees, sobbing as only a six-year-old can.

Logan took her shoulders. "Darlin'—I'll visit when I can, I promi—"

"You gonna leave me, jus' like everyone else!" Kylee cried. "Why, Mr. Logan? _Why?_" her voice broke, and she buried her face in his wife beater, though he jumped slightly at the action. "Is it 'cause I don't listen to you? I'll listen, Wolvie . . . I won't come in here—I'll leave you alone!"

Damn. He was no good with women—little or grown ones.

"Listen—it ain't nothin' you've done," he tried. He hesitated, then cautiously stroked behind her ears, just as she liked. Her small body shook with tears. "I don't wanna leave, but I gotta. The Wolverine—he ain't one to stay in one place too long. I've been here too long, kid. It's time to go."

"But I don't w-wan-t you t-to!" Kylee sobbed, clinging onto him. Her claws dug into his back, deep enough that he actually felt blood dripping from the scratches, but he didn't care.

He had a brief, crazy urge just to up and take the kid with him, but he immediately dismissed it and almost laughed at the thought. He really must be mentally imbalanced if he thought he was capable of taking care of a kid: he couldn't even take care of himself. It wouldn't be good for her at all, not in any way, shape or form. There was nothing left for him, after all. He'd just have to go back to wandering . . . again.

He let out a long breath. He really was just a drifting bastard animal, wasn't he?

He looked around his too-nice room—personalized with the scattered clothes, beer cans, and the comfortable scent of cigar smoke, and beneath it all, the faint stink of old blood and badly cleaned-up bile.

Damn it.

No matter how hard he'd fought it—this had become home. The first one he'd ever had.

And now he knew why he'd avoided having one before. It hurt like hell to leave.

But what did the pain mean, anyway? Nothing, that's what.

He'd heal. The pain would go away.

It always had. Always did.

He held her until her tears subsided, and then he slowly tried to ease her off. She held fast, like a cat to a high branch in a tree.

"I gotta go, kid. Let go'a me, now. Come on, dammit. Let go."

Kylee didn't meet his eyes as she slowly unwrapped herself from him. He stood, setting her on the unmade bed.

It was funny, Logan realized. She'd been the only person he'd shared a bed with for months. Normally he'd be stir-crazy at this point, but in truth, despite his unusual celibacy . . . he'd never been more satisfied in his life.

Well, in his memory, at least.

And now he was taking off.

Kylee didn't meet his eyes, but curled up around herself, her breath hitching occasionally with remaining broken-hearted sobs. He felt her eyes on his back as he want about, grabbing a few shirts, pants, and other necessities and stuffing them into a small bag. He stuffed the eye patch in at the last moment.

He'd always traveled light. He'd head to Madripoor, though at this point he wasn't expecting anything to pan out. After, he could head back up to Canada and start over. Start his round with cage fighting again—maybe buy himself a new trailer. Keep moving. Always keep moving.

But what the hell was the point?

He pulled on his jacket and grabbed the rest of his cigars, but left a note for the elf telling him where he'd stashed the rest of his booze. It was better than a goodbye, he reckoned.

Finally throwing his bag over his shoulder, he looked back at Kylee, whose tears had soaked her face and made her short whiskers droop. She was trembling as he stepped forward and bent down to look at her in the eye.

"You be good now, hear?" he murmured roughly. "Storm'll look after you—she understands more than you think." He brushed her cheek, wiping away the most recent tear. "You're a beauty, darlin'—don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Kylee leaped forward, and Logan jerked back, but managed to keep from going defensive at the last moment. She hugged him around the neck, and brushed a soft, wet, whisker-tickling kiss on his cheek. "You too, Wolvie," she whispered brokenly. She pulled back, pressing a now soaked, smeared, and wrinkled picture to his chest. "For you."

Logan took it, glancing down at the rough figures. He nodded, silent, then slowly lowered her down. She let go of him reluctantly, but at last he turned and left down the hall, leaving her standing there alone in the middle of his room.

TBC . . .


	26. For Better or Worse

So.

Here I am.

Sorry this chapter took so long to come out. I do actually have a few excuses:

1. I had this chapter completely written when I posted the last chapter, but when I read through it I scrapped the whole thing and started over 'cause the whole thing sucked. Having to re-think and re-write whole chapters doesn't happen very often, but it does happen. As a result, this chapter is twice as long as I intended it to be, and quite a bit less edited than I try to have chapters before I post them. Hopefully it's decent enough anyway.

2. School started this week, which means I was frantically scrambling to do absolutely nothing of any sort of worth for the last week or so, and then frantically scrambling to get everything ready for school for the last couple days. Not smart, but ultimately rewarding. ;)

3. I hate the beginning of semesters. They send me into an irrational panicked/stressed mode that takes me about two weeks to begin to get over, and during that time it's hard for me to think of anything but the things I should be doing instead of the things I would like to do. It's a dangerous state to be in, and not exactly the best state for writing (or anything, really).

So, yeah. I'm done rambling. Sorry again for the long wait, thanks a tooooon for all the reviews (total paaarty for how many of you reviewed this time!), and I promise this time it won't be such a long time before postings. Thus, with a new chapter as an incentive to review—please do it! I know you guys are out there. :)

Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter 26: For Better or Worse

* * *

_Now:_

Logan wheeled his Harley out of the garage and closed it behind him. He paused beside the motorcycle, looking around and enjoying one last breath of the air there.

He mounted the bike and gunned it out the gate.

He didn't look back.

The morning air chilled the drying sweat on his face. From the dreams? No—running. He'd been running.

His bike roared down the road, breaking the silence of the morning. Wind swept his hair from his face, pulling at him. The first glimmer of the sun turned the eastern clouds golden.

The sun was rising later. Summer was ending, fall beginning. The air was growing cooler, and though the trees were still full with the green flush of summer, he could smell the coming change. The leaves would be turning soon, drying up, falling.

He knew the roads around here with his eyes closed, and let the wind take him. He blurred past forest and pastures, flying past where he'd left Bloodscream ripped to shreds all over the road. The only remnant of the fight was a long mark in the asphalt where his bike had skid, and three thin, clean cuts where he must've sliced through the road during the fight.

Wonder who'd cleaned it up. Storm? Maybe just the NYPD—they'd gotten used to seeing a lot of crazy crap. Maybe SHIELD.

Did it matter? Someone always cleaned up. Blood washed away, marks faded, people forgot. Given time, it was like nothing had ever happened.

With nobody to remember, did it matter if it ever did happen?

It didn't.

And Logan couldn't remember. Just in nightmares and dreams—and who gave a damn about that?

He was gunning to the highway when his stomach gave an audible growl.

He was tempted to growl right back—he didn't feel like eating, and he knew real hunger. But he had money, and it wasn't like he was in a hurry. He had all the time in the world to kill. Maybe literally.

Hell, he had nowhere to be. Why should he care if he wasted an hour, a day, a year? Not like he was wasting his life away.

He took to the city, winding through early traffic that was already clogging New York's heart like fat in a chucky man's veins. The air stank of oil and exhaust mixed with humanity.

A turn here, a wind around a block. He knew New York City like a general knew a battleground, though hell knew why. Far as he knew he hadn't stepped there before being picked up by the X-Crew, and even then he'd known the streets like he'd lived there for years.

He parked his bike next to the smoke-hazed dive and walked inside, stepping over an unconscious drunk sprawled next to the doorway and ignoring the scent of blood.

It was a dive of a bar—the worst of the worst. What other kind would be open this early? The place was all but vacated, besides the bartender and two beaten-down teens picking up the mess from the night before. Three chairs had been completely splintered, and broken glass was scattered across the floor, glittering.

Logan spared the energy to be briefly sorry he'd missed the fight. But even that was passing. Guys who hung out here were too beat down by life to even be satisfying punching bags.

_"Talk now, you sonava—"_

_BAM! BAM! BAM!_

_With bloodied bruises, too beaten to move. Wounds deeper than bruises._

_Weighed down with bullets and metal. Too heavy to move._

Logan shook his head slightly, settling down into a seat next to the wall where he had a full view of the rest of the near-empty bar.

Damn, he needed a beer.

He barked the barkeeper, who took his money before filling him a glass and sliding it across the counter to him. He told him to keep them coming.

Logan buried himself in the cheap beer, ignoring the phantom aches in his chest as the boys' sweeping the broken glasses from the floor echoed in his ears as if glass-shards had somehow found themselves into his skull.

Damn dream. Could almost still feel it.

He shook his head, grinding his palms into his eyes.

He didn't want to think.

He'd head north. Maybe take the side roads, so he could go as fast as he could without picking up any cops. If he crashed he'd heal up easy enough, and he still had enough cash to go grab another bike. They'd tail him for a little longer, but he'd lose them again. He always did.

It wasn't like he didn't have a life without the X-Men. Even without Madripoor, it'd be easy to find some bastards that could use a good beating. That was the good thing about this damn world—never a shorthand of evil assholes.

Two more beers later and he wasn't feeling any better.

Kids were watching him; he could feel their eyes, sweeping over him—curious. The bartender too—sideways looks, measuring.

He hated it.

They were pale and weak. Kids probably too drained by drugs to think straight—probably high right now, by the dazed look in their eyes. Bartender probably moved a mile an hour, with the belly he was carrying around.

No threat.

_Five meters back. He could be on them in a second. Maybe take four plugs—two from each, if they were lucky. If they had army-issue or something illegal it'd be a bit messier. Slow him down a hair, make him a little sloppier. Two seconds, maybe. No time for them to call for backup. Two more seconds for the guy behind the bar and there'd be no witnesses._

He glanced back at the kids, at the barkeeper.

No. No threat.

Dream'd put him on edge. Like breathing through a straw. He felt like if he turned fast enough he'd find . . . .

A gun? No—guns never had frightened him, and never would. He wasn't afraid of pain. This was something he couldn't remember—but it made the beer sit in his gut like mercury, eating away at him.

Worse. Something far worse. A nightmare, walking in his shadow.

He frowned down at his beer—more than half done with the latest one already. He swirled the remaining liquid around slowly, watching swirl and ripple across the smeared bottom.

"That your phone? Hey, you! That your phone?"

Logan glared up at him, annoyed at the interruption. "What?"

"Your bag's ringing. That's, like, the fifth time they've called."

A phone?

Dammit. The X-clowns always had him take a phone with him. Must've forgotten to take it out of his bag. He hadn't checked it before rushing out.

Stupid. Mistake like that could cost lives, if someone had slipped a bomb in there instead. Wouldn't hurt him for long, but it might take him out of the game—make him vulnerable, and kill anyone that was too close to him . . . .

Why the hell would anyone stick a bomb in his bag? Okay, stupid question. But who would be able to, with him holed up at the mansion?

He put his face in his hands, trying to stop the babble of thoughts.

He was going freakin' crazy. Paranoid, even for him.

The phone was ringing again. Guy behind the counter was giving him stink-eye. Guess he'd silence it, one way or another.

He dug through his bag to find the phone at the bottom. He bumped his beer as he pulled it out, almost knocking it over before he grabbed it. He took a deep drink and stared at the phone as it buzzed in his hand as if personally affronted at being ignored.

He could crush it. Push one of those damned buttons just to silence it. Flush it down the toilet, maybe, or stab it. That'd get the guys to move—maybe get that fat clown behind the counter to pull out the gun. Give him something real to slice, no matter how pitiful the target. Sure, the guy could probably hold himself against half a dozen normal drunks, but Logan wasn't normal, and he wasn't drunk.

Too bad.

The phone fell silent. Good. Maybe now they'd take the hint.

He dropped it on the counter and began to drain the rest of his beer.

Fifth glass? Sixth? Who was counting? Who cared?

_Ring. Riiiing._

He slammed his glass down on the counter, glaring at the phone.

Well, what the hell?

He flipped it open.

"Yeah, what?"

"Logan, where are you?" Storm demanded.

"Ain't none of your business."

"Listen to me, Logan. Kylee is gone."

Logan almost bit his tongue. He sat up from his slouch, automatically alert. "What?"

"We have been looking all over for her. She is not in the mansion."

Oh. Just missing—not necessarily gone. He slumped again. "You're overreacting. The kid's probably just holed up somewhere." _Sleeping or crying._ "Listen, I got some business in Canada. Don't expect to be back for a while."

"Wolverine—"

"Check the stables," Logan said, dully running his finger down the condensation on the side of his half-empty glass. "Kid likes to hide in the loft. If she ain't there she could be hidin' in a closet or tree—maybe under the bed. Send one of the kids to go check down by the lake."

"_Listen to me_. She is not there. Security footage caught her climbing over the northern wall an hour ago, and we lost her trail not far from there."

Silence.

_Damn._

_ Damn damn damn._

"Logan?"

"Kid probably'll come back on her own."

The reception crackled static for a moment; Logan pulled his ear away. Storm must be angry. "Logan, what is going on?"

Damn it all.

"Don't know what you're talkin' about. Keep lookin'. I'll be there in a half an hour."

He snapped the phone shut before she had an opportunity to respond.

He stood, pushing back his chair hard enough that one of the drained-out teens jumped. Logan didn't even glance at him as he grabbed his bag and strode out the door, leaving his half-drained beer behind.

* * *

They hadn't found her by the time he got there.

He didn't bother heading to the mansion—didn't bother talking to anyone. He parked outside the wall and headed right into the woods. He could hear the kids calling for Kylee to the west—Rogue, Bobby, Colossus, even some of the younger kids. As he moved silently through the trees he could see Jubilee's bright coat in the distance.

Who needed flares with a beacon like that?

Nah—Kylee wasn't lost. The idiot kid'd run off.

He ducked low, going still as Angel flew overhead. He waited, his nose twitching slightly as he parsed scents, and then moved on. It smelled like the kids'd already searched over here—their stink was everywhere.

He moved quickly, keeping close to the ground.

There.

Kylee's scent, along with the smell of traces of her dinner from the night before and strawberry bubble-bath.

Stupid kid.

But he had her scent. She might have been on the run for a couple hours now, but she was heading deeper into the woods. Even if she kept running the whole time, Logan would find her soon enough.

And when he did, he'd . . . .

He'd . . . .

. . . .

He'd get to that later.

He glanced back at the students. Where the hell was Storm? She should have been able to trace the kid well enough on her own.

But he pushed the thought aside. It wasn't needed—no thoughts were, here. The woods were his domain, and even as he followed Kylee's trail deeper into the woods he became more at home.

And so, apparently, had Kylee.

As he followed them her prints became almost non-existent—she must've gone without her shoes, but that hadn't seemed to slow her in the slightest. She had kept a good pace—the distance between her tracks made that clear—sometimes on her feet and sometimes on all fours as she climbed over fallen trees and stones.

At a shallow brook Logan had even lost her scent for a while, only to pick it up a good hundred yards down stream where she'd climbed out on an overhanging branch. He'd almost missed it.

And despite his irritation at the whole affair, Logan felt a tinge of rare admiration before he shoved it back down.

Damn. For a house-bred, half-grown kid, she had skills.

She also must've figured he'd be following her, by the way her tracks weaved. She knew he'd be scenting her out.

She had doubled back twice along her same trail, more than once climbing trees and actually jumping between trunks above his head, leaving thin gouges from her small claws as she tried to hide her scent.

Kid might even be as good as Nightcrawler out here. Maybe better.

He'd never seen her out in the woods—not really. Usually their interaction consisted of bedtime stories and friendly morning attacks. Once he'd let her trail along with him as he led a bunch of the kids on a perimeter hike of the area around the mansion walls, but she'd spent most of the time sitting on his shoulders and snagging at overhanging branches when they got within arm's reach, or holding onto his hair as she rode along. He'd had to threaten to send her back to get her to stop humming to herself; it had been driving him crazy.

What the hell was she thinking?

She wasn't. It was just some overdramatic, emotion-driven, thoughtless stunt to get attention. Kids did things like that.

The sun grew closer to noon, burning hot and clear. Couldn't Storm have at least sent out some clouds to cool things down? If anything, she was probably keeping it clear for visibility. Didn't help.

He'd long since left the rest of the searchers' scents behind.

He followed her trail across a dirt road, up a knoll, and then slowed from his quick pace. He crouched down, breathing deep and keeping silent.

She was close. The scent of dinner had sweated out of her, the bubble-bath smell was covered under dust, river-water, and the scent of grass.

He crept forward, a slight breeze shifting his hair. He couldn't see her at first—couldn't hear her. He ducked low, following the trail to where it disappeared to a hollow under a fallen log.

Kylee was curled up there, silent except for her soft breathing as she slept. Her hands and feet were damp and browned from dust and dirt, and her short orange fur smudged and smeared, and her pink pajamas ripped from catching on branches and thorns. Her eyes were red from crying.

Next to her lay the bones and a few scattered tuffs of fur from a small animal—a squirrel, freshly eaten. Maybe twenty minutes dead.

Logan didn't move, watching her through narrowed eyes.

The breeze shifted.

Kylee's nose twitched. She shifted, giving out a long sigh, and then opened her eyes.

She blinked at him out of the shadows, then rubbed her eyes sleepily. She froze mid-yawn, her mouth snapping shut as she whipped her head around to stare at him.

Her eyes narrowed to slits. She twisted onto her feet in the small enclosure, scooting back into the hollow as she bared her teeth and growled.

And before he knew what he was doing, Wolverine was growling back—a deep, warning rumble, which he cut off sharply.

But at his growl Kylee's eyes widened further, her ears went back, and she shrank—showing she was no threat.

Huh. Like that was needed.

Logan pulled back, clearing his throat and narrowing his eyes.

"What the hell are you thinkin', kid?"

She pulled back farther, her eyes reflecting like an animal's in the shadows.

"Dammit, Kylee, I'm not gonna put up with this. If you wanna just stay put, then I'll head on back and tell Storm where to find you and she can deal with getting you back home."

He waited. She stared back, wordless—her face hard but telling nothing. Kid had a killer poker-face. Who knew?

He could smell it, though. She was tired, and beneath the forest-smells she stank of emotion. He'd been expecting grief and some anger, but he was surprised at the sharp, almost cutting smell of despair that hung over her. The kid smelled desperate.

"Fine." Logan straightened, taking his time to stretch as he stood. "Your choice." He stepped away.

No sound. He was six steps away before she finally spoke up—five steps more than he had expected.

"Wolverine?"

He stopped, but didn't turn. He could hear Kylee as she crawled out of her hiding place and climbed up to crouch on the log. She looked down at her hands, her fur flat.

Logan glanced back. "So. You comin'? Or do I gotta carry you?"

She looked up at him, and with the mud streaks in her fur and her crouched position she looked as much a baby tiger than a person. Her voice was soft, almost inaudible. "'s'not home."

"Close a thing as you've got." She looked away again, and Logan ran a hand through his hair. "You're bein' stupid, kid. What the hell're you thinkin' you're going to go?"

"'m okay here," she replied.

Logan snorted. "Right."

At his tone she straightened, her fur bristling. "You did it. I can too."

"Like hell you can. Now listen. You're going to go back to the mansion, and you're going to stay there. I'm leavin', and next time I ain't comin' back—even to look for you, got me?"

"I ain't goin' back."

Logan was through. He'd been inching towards her as they talked, and suddenly he darted forward. Kylee'd been ready—she was in the air, half-way towards an overhead branch by the time he snagged her by the scruff of her neck.

She hissed, twisting around. She grabbed his arm and he felt her claws beginning to dig into the skin. He ignored it, beginning to march back towards the mansion.

He'd dump her where the search party could find her and take off.

He'd walked for a few minutes when Kylee finally went limp, letting go of his arm, but without any of the mauling he'd been expecting. She hung there, her head bowed.

_Sniff._

Damn.

Let her cry. She was just making this difficult for everyone.

_Sniff_. A soft, shaking breath.

Stupid kid.

He wasn't hurting her, was he? He'd grabbed her by the scruff of her neck before, but he'd never carried her farther than down the stairs to the kitchen. Or had she hurt herself before? He didn't smell blood, but she could have fallen . . . .

Nah. Damn kid was just moping. He stopped, putting her down, but keeping a firm grip on her arm.

"Gonna walk now?"

She shook her head, her eyes down. "I'm not goin' back."

Logan faced her squarely. "Okay, kid. What happened?"

"Nothin'."

"Kids pick on you?"

Kylee shook her head again, then looked at him.

"_You_ come back," she said.

This was exactly why he couldn't stand kids. They didn't make sense, they didn't understand reason. Like talking to a PMS woman.

"I told you, kid. Time to move on. I got things to do."

Kylee was looking at him sadly. "You're lying again."

"What?"

She rubbed her nose. "I c'n smell you lyin'. You're leavin' 'cause you're different, aren't you? 'Cause we're different." She sat down in the leaves, looking around the forest, her nose twitching at the scent of the wind. "Rogue was tellin' me stories, 'bout when you lived in the moun'ins all alone, without people. For months and months, all alone." She looked at him. "Is that where you go, Wolvie? You go back, away from people?"

Logan stared at her.

Kylee looked away, hugging herself. "Is that how it's s'posed t'be? Ms. Storm was talkin' 'bout how you don't have a home. Running, she says—huntin'. I can hunt." She went silent for a long moment, her chin beginning to quiver. "I'm sorry I brought the rat in, Mr. Logan. I'm sorry I made them watch you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" Her voice broke, and she curled up closer, drawing her knees up to her chest. "They're always watchin' us, aren't they? Always watchin'. They don't know what to do; they never know what to do." She was crying in earnest now, small sobs shaking her form.

Logan's hand settled on her shoulder. She didn't move, so he just scooped her up. She turned, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and crying into his shoulder, her grip like a vice. "'ey all go a-away. They all g-go away," she choked. "Mum 'n Dad 'n Jeannie 'n Scott, Charlie . . . ."

"Shh, shhh," Logan said, his voice a bit gruff as he held her against him. "It's all right kid. It's all right."

She was shaking her head against him. He could feel her tears through his t-shirt. Probably wiping her nose on it too. He didn't care.

She quieted, still clinging to him, but her weight was limp in his arms, one hand curled in the collar of his shirt. Poor kid was exhausted. He put a hand on her back to hold her against him and starting walking back slowly. She didn't speak or move, though shuddering shivers still shook her body in aftershocks of her tears.

Must've cried herself right to sleep.

Logan let out a long breath.

The sun was now high and bright—too bright. It hurt his eyes as he strode—taking a direct path back to the mansion.

It took half the time to get back as it did to find her, even walking. The smells of the searchers returned, but many of the calls had faded—spread out, or gone in for lunch.

"Please don't go, Wolvie." Kylee's voice was weak, with an edge of tears still sharp, the words shaking. She must've been awake the whole time.

Logan didn't answer at first. His step didn't falter. "Ain't my decision."

She fell silent again, her head bowed. Logan could see the wall to the mansion grounds. He made attempt to hide his approach, but he still was able to get within a thirty yards of Bobby before the kid saw. The young mutant blinked in surprise, then grabbed his 'com.

"Found her! Storm, Wolverine's got her!" He skid forward, using a created trail of ice to slide right to their side. "Logan—is she hurt?" Bobby was staring at his face, though like he'd grown an extra eye.

Oh yeah. He'd forgotten to put his patch back on. Well, who gave a damn?

"She's fine. Jus' tired. Call everyone else in, will ya?" He walked right past him, and Bobby blinked after them before calling into his 'com to gather in the search party.

Logan found his motorcycle and his bag where he'd left them—good thing, or he'd have had another long hunt for the day, and he was feeling a little hunted out. He settled the kid in front of him and gunned the engine.

"Hold on tight, kid."

He turned the bike and headed back to the mansion, driving carefully and under the speed limit for the first time in his memory—and very likely his life.

* * *

_Never thought the kid'd think like that._

_Guess we all knew she was feral. She's never really fit in with the rest of the kids, but I'd figured it was 'cause she was so much younger. She likes to be alone, and more than a few kids have felt her claws 'cause of her temper. Typical little kid._

_There's plenty of ferals that get along with people just well. There's Beast, for one . . . ._

_. . . . _

_Well, hell. Not like I know many ferals anyway._

_But the kid's a darlin'—don't know how anyone who really knew her couldn't like her. She shouldn't feel outta place. No matter if she runs around on all fours or brings a rat to the breakfast table. There're worse things to do. A hell of a lot worse things. She seems t'think that we're alike, me 'n her—it ain't true. Kid's just lonely—bein' the only one her age, 'n all._

_I really ain't good with kids. Never pretended to be, and the devil knows what the professor was thinking when he got me to teach 'em. I gotta admit that I still wonder if he screwed with my head somehow—with a brain already scrambled like half-cooked egg, how am I supposed to know? Even if he is gone for good, I ain't one to put it past a telepath—especially one like Chuck._

_Not like my record's been that good around here, anyway. I can't be easy with the kids—it ain't like ol' Magneto'll be easy on 'em, or any of the clowns they come across. Most the people they walk by in the street would like to have them locked up or dead, if they knew what they are._

_So it ain't the classes. It's everythin' else. Rogue got lucky. So did all the girls I almost diced up after Bloodscream. Kylee got lucky this morning, and every other morning she's interrupted my nightmares._

_But then there's the others._

_'Cause not everyone's been so lucky._

_Seems sometimes that I'm almost as good as killin' off my pals as my enemies._

* * *

_Then:_

Remy LeBeau was dead.

He was sure of it.

He woke up slowly, keeping his eyes closed as the memories of the past days came back to him.

He'd been sick. He'd thought he was going to die then, but he didn't. Then he'd gone out and gotten shot. He remembered just before he blacked out realizing that he'd probably not wake up again.

But he was waking up now. He waited for the slam of drugs, the odd numbness of painkillers, and the distanced agony of his shoulder. None of it came. In fact, he felt great. No pain in his lungs or throat—which felt great, since the last he remembered he felt like he was trying to breathe underwater—his head was clear, his feet didn't hurt, and his shoulder felt good as ever.

So obviously, he was dead.

But while he never put much weight on an afterlife, he'd never expected it to be like this—a bit on the chilly side (a good sign; despite his lack of belief in religion, it was semi-comforting not to be caught in hellfire). He was lying down, and whatever was beneath him was slightly damp, and definitely not comfortable, though he had no aches or pains to blame on it.

He opened his eyes.

The sky was blue, salted lightly with a scattering of pale, thin clouds. The sun working its way up the sky, and with that the air was warming and the last of the mud-browned snow melting.

Wolverine was sprawled, blood-covered, his mouth hanging open, and slightly curled in on himself as he lay just out of arm's reach.

Gambit sat up slowly, staring at him wide-eyed. He could hear the Wolverine's breathing rattling softly in his chest, and could see his chest rising and falling. Other than that, he would have sworn he was looking at a day-old corpse.

Gambit dragged his eyes away, feeling a bit ill.

Well, he wasn't dead then. He was alive—and feeling surprisingly good. Maybe he was in shock? The only other answer would have to be that he was drugged to high heaven—and somehow he doubted that Wolverine had been carrying around a bag of opium this whole time.

He looked down at himself. His shirt was missing, his coat ripped, and dried blood stained his torso—lots of it. He pulled back his coat, frowning at his bloodstained shoulder. There was no pain, but more than that—there was no wound.

He was better. Not just better, but perfectly fine.

Healed.

He looked down at the sleeping man, still rubbing his shoulder.

"Remy don' know what you did, Wolvie, but you did somethin'." He lowered his hand, rubbing the flakes of his dried blood between his fingers. "Saved m'life. You saved my life more dan once."

The feral man didn't stir.

Gambit looked up at the sky, and around at the forest. There was no sign of anyone—not helicopters or soldiers, and he could see the mountains through the trees.

He stood slowly, glancing at the slumbering man once more before stepping silently away from where he slept.

* * *

_Now:_

Kylee was bathed and smelling of natural herbal soap when Logan tucked her into her own bed and closed the blinds to make sure the bright sun wouldn't bother her.

Herbal soap was better than that strawberry stuff. Kinder on the nose. And if the kid had half the sniffer Logan suspected at this point, the strawberries must've been giving her a headache.

Crazy kid had been up early and running since. If she slept until sundown it wouldn't do her any harm.

Logan brushed her still-damp hair from her face and padded silently to the door, closing it behind him. It showed how emotionally and physically drained the kid was that she didn't even stir.

He headed down the hall, still quiet. He could hear the kids getting back to their normal activities—after almost a full day of school off, by the complaints it sounded like Storm was giving readings to help most of the kids keep up with studies. Some sounded as if they'd gotten off free, though, and were now raiding the kitchen.

Homey. Strange.

He made his way down the stairs.

"Logan."

He looked into the living room, unsurprised to see Storm seated on one of the new couches. She looked tired and wind-blown—as frazzled as after any mission. Figures. She took responsibility of all the kids here. She needed to give herself a break.

"Hey, 'Ro." He reached into his pocket for a cigar and tapped it against his palm. "Just leavin'."

Storm stood and came forward, standing a whole head over him. "That's what I need to talk to you about—"

"I heard the whole thing. No need to tell me to not come back." Storm looked taken aback. "Yeah. But don't worry about it. Those two're good enough—better for the kids." He shouldered his backpack. "And keep an eye on the furball this time, will ya?"

"Now hold on one moment," Storm said. "You obviously did not stay long enough to hear the most important part of the conversation."

Logan looked at her sharply. "Don't pull my leg, Storm. Me against them two? The school needs the help, and it ain't like I'm around all that much anyway."

"The school needs _your _help, Logan, as this morning has shown us," Storm said. She sighed, running a hand through her hair, and then looked him in straight in the eye. "We X-Men are family, Wolverine. Even if I _wanted_ to, I would have no right to tell you to leave."

"And I wouldn't listen to ya if you tried to make me," he replied. "But they were right, Storm." She opened her mouth, but he ran over her, his voice low so it wouldn't carry. Laughter from the game room echoed down the hall. "Cut the crap. They were right. I ain't safe to be around."

"Havok and Polaris are already gone, Logan."

Logan looked at her sharply. "What?"

"They departed soon after we talked. I have enough immature and problematic students to deal with, and enough blind prejudice to face without having it under our own roof."

Logan stared at her, and Ororo smiled. "I wish I had a camera. It is not every day that one finds the Wolverine speechless."

Logan looked away. "What the hell happened?"

"Before or after I came out and smelled that confounded cigar smoke of yours?"

"You knew I'd heard."

Ororo inclined her head. "I must've called you ten times before you picked up. Where were you going?"

Logan shrugged. "What'd you do to the duo to get them out so fast?"

Ororo took his avoidance of the question in stride with a small smile. "Well, I . . . I am afraid I was kind of . . . upset."

"Upset?"

"I . . . I think we need to replace the carpet in the office, again, Logan, and the wiring in the light fixture."

Ah. It took a rare woman that could literally rain on a person's parade.

Logan looked down, so she couldn't see his face, but when he looked up he was actually chuckling. "Damn, Ororo. Sometimes I just love ya."

"Yes, I thought you'd like that," Ororo deadpanned, but then she smiled back. She put a hand on his shoulder, and he actually let her do so. "I told you I was glad you're here, Logan. We've made do, and we can continue to do so."

Logan shrugged in a careless manner, pulling away from her touch, but not too far away. "'s too late to head to Canada right now anyway," he said gruffly, lighting up and drawing deep. Storm didn't comment on it.

"That was . . . a very good thing you did with Kylee yesterday, Logan."

"I was hungry," he grunted with a shrug, stuffing his zippo back in his pocket. "'Sides, it's been a long time since I've had fresh rat."

Storm looked at him, a curl of smoke twisting casually to gather at the ceiling far overhead, a hand in one pocket as he glanced down the hall as the echoes of kids making a sudden stampede to the backyard shook the floor. He was the picture of a person who didn't give a damn.

But there was something defiant in his tone—perhaps defensive, perhaps daring her to shudder in disgust and draw away from him, or to stare at him a second too long.

She didn't.

"Very well, Logan," she said. "I won't say thank you. I know how much you hate that."

Logan shot her a strange look, readying some usual retort, but then he stopped, and just nodded. He took a long draw from his cigar and let his breath out slowly.

"Maybe you can call 'em back and keep 'em on for a while anyway," he said. "'m planning on headin' to Madripoor."

"My decision is final," Ororo said firmly. "But must you leave so soon? You just returned from your last search . . . ."

"I know," Logan rumbled. "But Bloodscream said he knew me in France, and Madripoor. Made it sound like Madripoor was a hell of a lot more recent, too."

"Madripoor is full of nothing but criminals and murderers," Storm replied. "If anyone does remember you, they won't be volunteering information, I am sure."

"Yeah, well. Man's gotta try." If he'd lived abroad so much it sure would explain his lack of history around the states and Canada.

"Logan, I was actually hoping that you might wait for a few more days at the least," Storm admitted.

"Yeah? What's eatin' you?"

She took a deep breath, folding her arms.

"Besides the fact that it would be quite helpful with Kylee to have you around, I've been keeping in contact with Hank," she said. "He has been playing it down, but I do not think his position is as safe as he would have me believe."

"What's been happenin'?" He never did like reading the paper. Enough trouble came to him without him having to seek it out and enjoy it vicariously. He didn't like newspeople anyway. Almost as bad as politicians. Sometimes worse.

"It's the cure," Storm said. "Since it has been shown that it is not a permanent solution, the people are becoming afraid once again."

"'Specially with old Magneto on the loose," Logan added grimly. He'd thought about that himself—even taken a few days some months back and tried to track him down. No luck. No one had seen him until he'd popped up in Genosha, fighting his pro-mutant war on foreign soils.

Storm nodded. "Beast is doing his best, but things are not looking good for him, Logan. By the sound of things, he may be let go soon."

Logan let out a low whistle. Beast being put in as the Chair of Mutant Affairs had seemed a stepping-stone towards Xavier's longed-for peace. A part of Logan had known better than to hope it meant things were going to be getting better, but it still sucked to have it happen so soon.

"How bad's it looking?"

"Not good," Storm admitted. "There were protests in Washington this evening. The people do not want a mutant in their government, no matter the good he has done."

Logan scowled, taking another draw from his cigar. "Damn people don't know good if you wave it in their faces," he said. He looked at her. "Well, my past ain't gone nowhere the past seventeen years. It ain't goin' anywhere anytime soon."

* * *

_October 3, 20—_

_Ororo was right._

_Was runnin' through a Danger Room session with our advanced kids—Rogue, Kitty, Colossus, Angel, Jubilee, and Ice-Pop when it happened. Kurt interrupted us with the news. 'Ported in and almost got smashed by the Ruskie. Not the smartest thing to do._

_Guess the reason was good enough, though. We came out and saw it on the tube._

_Riots in Washington. 'Parently folks've given up on even trying to appear tolerant, and they want Blue Boy out. Can't stand having a mutie so high up in the government—even if it is in Mutant Affairs. Think he's some sort of spy for ol' Magneto._

_Real nice. But prejudice never really has been known for smarts or reason._

_Storm called him up. He says things aren't lookin' good, but he's safe. Course, I'd hate to see what Beast could do to a crowd of non-mutants if he put his mind to it._

_Okay, to be honest—given the right circumstances I actually wouldn't mind seein' that at all._

_Problem is, he wouldn't. Sure he could take down those racist clowns almost as good as I could, but he ain't got the heart. Or maybe he got too much heart._

_And 'cause of that, the school's worried. These riots aren't peace-able, and they ain't lookin' like they're going to get better._

* * *

Logan was slumped in front of the TV, beer in hand, when the phone rang. He'd been watching a hockey match, but had been interrupted when the kids ran in and turned on the news instead to the continued protests in Washington. Both riots and hockey might involve a satisfactory amount of bashing, but Logan preferred the latter. Still, he refused to give up his seat, and Kylee refused to move from her perch at his side. He let her stay there as long as she didn't get in the way.

"Get the phone, will ya, kid?" Kitty jumped up from where she'd been lying on the floor and phased through the wall, one foot still inside the room as he heard her answer the call in the hall.

"Xavier's School for Gifted Students, this is Kitty Pryde speaking." Silence. "Ms. Monroe? No, she's out right now." A pause. "Yeah, he's here. One second." Kitty's head popped through the wall. "Logan? It's for you."

Logan's eyes narrowed, but he went out into the hall and took the phone from Kitty, who slipped back through the wall. He stared at the mouthpiece suspiciously for a second before bringing it up.

"This is Logan," he said slowly.

"Wolverine. Henry McCoy speaking."

"Hank," he leaned against the wall, turning to watch the slit of the television that was visible from the hall as he spoke. "Everything all right up there?"

"Yes, yes. Everything is fine," Beast said calmly, contrasting against the sound of the news-coverage on the shouting protestors coming from the television. Of course, Hank had kept his cool during much worse situations. "I am just calling to inform you that I am being excused from my position. The official announcement will be made this evening."

Logan snorted softly. "They got a reason?"

"Their explanation is that my frequent and sudden absences are disruptive to my post."

Guess that taking off to save lives on missions or head to the lab to save the world from the latest man-made killing virus didn't count as sick days. Well, hell. Logan was half surprised that they'd bothered with a cover in the first place, no matter how bad it was. "Whatever helps them sleep at night."

"Indeed," Beast agreed, still sounding insanely cheerful. "The whole affair is not so inconvenient. I was thinking of retiring anyway, but this just saves me the trouble. I believe the X-Men need me more at the moment. Ororo, Kurt, and you have been handling things too long on your own."

Logan couldn't think of anything to say to that, so after thinking over it for a second or two, he just grunted.

"Besides," Beast added. "I never really liked politics anyway."

The TV screen zoomed in on the crowd. A filthy, ungroomed man reeled towards the camera, spitting in his fury. "DIE, FREAKIN' MUTIES! WE DON'T WANT YOU HERE! GO BACK TO HELL!"

Logan scowled and pulled out a cigar, tapping it unlit on his hand. "Yeah, you're preachin' to the choir here, bub." He pulled the mouthpiece away. "I've heard enough of this trash. Turn it down or turn it off, will ya?" They obeyed, muting the sound, and he uncovered the phone. "What was that?"

"I said that I will be returning home on the first flight tomorrow morning." Beast paused. "Ah, home," he sighed. "It will be wonderful to be back at last."

"Yeah, well, don't count your chickens yet. You need us to come'n get you?"

"No need," Hank said, optimistic as always. "Once I am removed there will be no reason for these riots to go on."

"You sure?" Logan asked, glancing at the now muted TV. Even silent, hatred and bigotry screamed from the riling crowds.

"Absolutely positive," Beast assured him.

"'Kay. See you tomorrow."

He hung up, then stuck his cigar in his mouth and pulled out his zippo. Storm walked through the door, caught sight of him, and set the bags she had been carrying on the floor.

"Has Hank called?" she asked.

"Just missed him," Logan said, lighting up. "He's comin' home."

"Damn it," Storm sighed, causing Logan to spare her a glance. She rubbed her forehead, looking strained and tired. "The professor would know what to do."

"Well, he ain't here," Logan said, but not harshly. "Beast's leavin' tomorrow morning. Tell Kurt to make sure the 'bird's filled up and ready to fly, will you?"

"He asked us to come and get him?"

"No," Logan said, drawing deep in his cigar. "But we're gonna go anyway."

Even after everything they'd been through, these X-guys were still too trusting. Those protesters out there weren't playing around, and if Logan knew anything about human nature, then things could very well get dirty.

But he didn't want to break out the whole team. Didn't want to alarm the kids, or make this bigger than it was. Best case scenario was that they'd walk in, grab Hank, and be back before breakfast.

Right.

TBC . . .


	27. Good Intentions

I said it wouldn't take so long this time, so here it is.

Thanks for the reviews, everyone! They really help to keep me writing, especially now that my life has gotten crazy-busy again. Really, the reactions you share really do help to nudge the story forward both in direction and progress. Thank you so much!

For those who didn't, please just spare a minute or two to drop a review. Each chapter takes well over that long to write. ;)

I hope you guys enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 27: Good Intentions

* * *

_Gunfire spattered now and again through the thick, cold air. Mist lay thick and low over the trenches, isolating him, even as the man next to him was clearly visible as he huddled in the foot-deep mud. He was young and pale, his hair grown out from a church hair-cut. His gun sat in the crook of his arm as he wrote in a notebook. Letter for home? Journal? Last wishes?_

_Logan began to straighten from his crouch, peering out into no-man's land and its tangle of wire and bodies, and smoke and mist._

_"Watch your head, sergeant," someone spoke softly down the line from him. He could see the faded, mud-splatched patches that marked him as a sergeant as well. "They've been jumpy—shooting at anything that moves. I think they know they've lost their trench."_

_"Bound and set ta die b'fore they do that," Logan murmured. "They're gonna go down t'the last man."_

_"Bastards."_

_The other sergeant checked his watch, wiping mud off the face to see the numbers. "Oh five hundred. Time," he said, standing hunched over, and raising his gun. "Let's go, boys." His men obeyed, and Logan turned, looking at the pale, young faces around him. There were too few of them—too many had already died, following him. And chances were most of these ones would die before this mess was over._

_Logan should have been dead five times over, himself. Nah—way more than five times._

_"C'mon," he said, lifting his own gun. There was no motivational speech, no reminder of why they were fighting. They'd all forgotten. It was just blood, and mud, and cold, and rats, and hunger._

_He'd even eaten a rat—something he'd sworn never to do again. Didn't matter. His boys needed the real food more than he did, and there were plenty of rats._

_His boys gathered around him, grim and silent. Young as they may be, they were experienced. They'd survived, and that was enough. He trusted them to watch his back—and he hadn't trusted a bunch of men in years._

_If ever._

_Funny, how facing death side-by-side pulls men together._

_"All right," he said. "Let's do this. Last run before we get ta sleep." That was motivation enough. These boys'd been up all night. They deserved their rest._

_Logan grabbed a hold of the ladder, ready to make the first break. His men looked up to him—waiting, trusting. Not many sergeants led their men out in the front, but Logan was lucky—bullets never hit him. All of them hoped his luck would spread._

_"MOVE!"_

_The command came up the line, and Logan bolted. He was out of the ditch before the machinegun across the way had time to register. He sprinted forward, his own gun punching out bullets as mud flew and bullets shot around him._

_Rt-chchchchchchchchchchchit!_

_The silence was shattered. Bullets whizzed through the air, men screamed, bodies fell. Men streamed out of the trench behind him, and the front line was mowed down. Bullets slammed into Logan's chest and he lifted his gun, returning fire. Men screamed in the trench before him, falling. The machine gun fell silent as its user flew back, his brains shot out and puddling in the mud._

_He bore his teeth, leaping over barbed wire and leaving his men behind as they fired, keeping low. He could see the whites of the enemies' eyes, see their fear as their bullets slammed into him, and he kept coming._

_He dove in, slamming down on helmets with the butt of his gun. He fell into the mud of the enemy trench pulling his knife from his belt and slashing out. Men fell around him, and others poured in, shouting._

_"DIE, AMERICAN ANIMAL!" one of them screamed in German._

_"I'm Canadian, bastard," he snarled back, punching him with the handle of his knife, before whipping around to gut one of his buddies._

_"GAS!"_

_The cry called from behind him—around him—in both German and English. Soldiers dived away from him, struggling with their masks. Better die from a knife or a gun than from the gas._

_Logan swore. He opened fire, cutting down this stretch of trench before the gas leaked down and began cutting into his own lungs. He grabbed a mask from a dead man and pulled it on._

_Gas couldn't kill him, but it was still damn ugly. He'd seen it._

_He grabbed at the ladder and dragging himself up into higher ground—not that it'd help much. He ran back to his own trench, leaping over barbed wire—thick mud hiding his own blood and others' that stained his uniform._

_The gas was falling—he could smell it coming, even through the mask._

_There. One of his men. Without a mask, trying to cover his face with his shirt._

_Wouldn't work._

_Logan ripped off his own mask, putting it over the young man's face. He stared back at him, eyes wide with horror. It was the soldier who'd been writing in the trench before the charge—barely more than a boy. Probably lied about his age to get here in the first place. "But sir—" he gasped._

_"Get back to the trench," Logan snapped, pushing him in the right direction. "Go!"_

_The young man obeyed wordlessly. The gunfire had paused for now, but in seconds it would be alive again. Even with the gas—with masks the enemy could still fire, still attack._

_Dammit. He could already feel the effects of the gas. It burned his eyes, eating through his lungs. Blood began to froth in his throat._

_He let himself fall to his knees. He couldn't bring himself back to the trench—not like this. The gas had him now, and he couldn't let them see. Couldn't let them see him die, and then come back again._

_He fell into the mud, his body seizing up. He clenched his teeth, tasting blood as his vision went red, his head felt ready to burst, his vision fading now to black . . . ._

_How sweet and fitting it is for one to die for one's country._

_Heh. Right. If he wasn't bleeding out through his mouth and nose he'd laugh. Nah—he'd laugh anyway, with blood bubbling up his throat—sounded almost like crying. Kinda funny._

_Hurt like hell._

_Damn pain. Wasn't like it meant anything anyway._

_And then, it began fading._

_The gas still lay around him—different from the mists, and reeking. But he could feel his lungs burning as the damage from the gas healed, his throat clearing, his eyes itching and watering, but even that was fading away._

_He spat, spitting out blood and bitter bile. No-man's land was covered in gunsmoke and gas and mist. It was raining now, a faint sprinkle that felt good against his hot skin._

_It was always hot when he healed. Like a fever, burning him from inside out._

_A corpse lay next to him, wide-eyed and still. His gun lay fallen next to his chilling hand, and Logan could smell the blood._

_It was another one of his boys._

_At least the soldier'd been shot down—killed almost instantly, by the smell of it. There wasn't enough blood for his heart to have kept beating long._

_Still twitching from pain and breathing hoarse, Logan crawled towards him. He closed his eyes, letting the soldier rest as he let his own face sink until he lay, stretched out in the mud by the dead._

_He deserved to rest._

_Logan grimaced, straightening slowly and shaking a couple bullets out of his shirt where they'd been forced out. He wiped off his knife and sheathed it, then bent to lift his gun._

_"What's this?" It wasn't spoken in German, or English. It was French. Logan looked up sharply, his nose twitching as he saw the thin figure through the smoke. The gas covered his scent. "Alive? Like this? Impossible."_

_Logan grabbed his gun and leveled it at the man, his aim steady despite his remaining shaking. If he'd spoken in half a dozen other languages he'd have shot his head out without hesitating. As it was, his finger rested on the trigger, ready._

_Friend or foe, this clown'd seen him withstand the gas._

_The smoke swirled, and Logan saw his face._

_He was skeletal, pale. His long, dark hair was pulled back from his face, and though he wore a French uniform, his gaze made Logan tense. He felt like a prey, being stared down by a predator much older and stronger than he. It wasn't something he was used to, and he didn't like it._

_What was worse—this guy wasn't wearing a mask either, and even as Logan's breathing was still raspy as he healed, this guy didn't seem affected in the slightest._

_In fact, Logan couldn't even hear the clown breathing._

_"What are you?" the man spoke, this time in articulated, French-accented English—even cultured, his eyes glittering and curious._

_"Pal, I was gonna ask you the same question," Logan answered._

_"I am a friend—an ally," he said. He still hadn't raised his gun from his side, but Logan's instincts screamed warning, and he hadn't lived this long by ignoring them. He kept his gun raised. "We are on the same side, non? Let us walk back together. I would be fascinated to hear your story."_

_"I ain't one to talk much," Logan growled. The Frenchman stepped forward, and Logan took a step back, mirroring him. The hair on the back of his neck bristled. He didn't like the smell of his clown, though it was hard to focus on through the gas. "You wanna live, Frenchie, you talk. Now."_

_He shrugged casually. "Very well. Since you wish to make it more difficult for both of us—"_

_And then he moved. Logan fired, catching the man right in the heart despite the moving target. He didn't stop moving, though—but slammed into him. The gun went flying, and a burning hand grabbed his throat. Logan fell back, grabbing at his arm as he snarled in agony._

_The man wasn't ready for him—no one ever was. Logan jerked forward with uncanny speed, slamming his forehead against the clown's nose, then spinning around. The Frenchman grabbed for him again, his fingers raking across his face, but Logan knocked his arm aside, twisting him around and catching him in a headlock from behind. He held his knife at his throat._

_"You gonna talk now?" he snarled. His neck burned, and he could feel blood leaking down his chest. Had the clown clipped him with a knife he hadn't seen?_

_Whatever this guy was, he'd taken a bullet to the heart with even less of a flinch than Logan would._

_"What are you? Your blood . . . powerful . . . . So wild! I've never tasted . . . not felt so alive . . . !"_

_Logan'd heard enough. He was too tired to bother with this. Too tired of everything. His blade cut deep, slicing off the madman's words and breaking his neck in the same motion. The body slumped, limp._

_Logan turned away, walking back to his trench—but not to his men. He'd climb in farther down and make his way back slowly. Come up with another story, 'bout how he found another mask, hankered down and waited 'til it was safe to come back._

_They'd believe him. He was lucky, after all._

_He called to the men in the trench, waving them down before they shot him down, and he climbed in, reporting his company and platoon number. They waved him on, and he passed through the mud and filth, looking at the mud and blood-streaked faces as he walked down the line to his squad._

_"Sergeant? Sergeant Logan, you're alive!" It was the kid he'd found, out in no-man's land. Alive and well, his wide eyes disbelieving._

_"Got lucky, private," Logan said simply. He took his place in the trench, setting his gun down. He scanned the rest of the ditch. His men blinked back at him—pale, exhausted, huddling like pale rats._

_He couldn't see two of them. He didn't need to ask where they'd gone._

_He'd taken down two squads today to make up for two of his other men he'd lost the day before. Two more would go down in the next charge._

_"Let's move out. Get some grub and head to the cots. Keep low and sleep while you can," Logan said, turning away to pick up his back with his meager belongings and his gun. He led the way down the trench, glancing up at the sky to the red sunrise as he reached up and put his hand over his neck to try and slow the bleeding._

_Now:_

Logan jerked awake—not screaming, but sweating nonetheless. He could smell the mud and filth—and worse: the desperation, the hopelessness. He could hear the gunfire, the bombs falling in the silence . . . the screams.

It was a different kind of terror, but just as familiar.

He kicked off the bedsheets and stared at the ceiling. It was a long time before he climbed out of bed to shower.

* * *

Logan met the fully-dressed Kitty, Storm, Jubilee, and Rogue in the basement hallway at four am. They were still wearing their civs; they were going as normals, and if things went well they'd stay that way. Kitty and Rogue still looked half-asleep, but Storm stood straight and alert, her slacks and blouse straight and unwrinkled. She looked ready for business, and smelled the same; she always smelled faintly like ozone when she was prepping for a mission.

Logan walked up, holding his broad-brimmed hat and his coat, and looking fully awake. He hadn't been able to go back to sleep. He glared down at Jubilee.

"What're you doin' here?"

The girl folded her arms. She was still wearing that damned yellow raincoat, and earrings large enough to lasso a bull. "I want to come too."

"I didn't say you were comin', so you ain't. Go back to bed, kid." He pulled his hat on, fingering the brim as he adjusted it.

_Kids. All too young, like those soldiers. Should be at home wooin' some crazy punk boy—anywhere but in the battlefront._

No. He wasn't going to think about that. His dream was already fading—completely crazy as it was. Probably walked in on a World War I movie the kids were watching once, or something. And as for Bloodscream . . . well, he was popping up in a bunch of his dreams lately. Nothin' special.

Probably just going crazy.

"Why Kitty and Rogue, then?" Jubilee protested.

Logan fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Storm can provide cover, Kitty can phase outta there if there's trouble, and Rogue can fly the 'bird. I ain't plannin' on fightin'."

Storm had agreed that this was going to be low-profile. Most of the students didn't even know they were going.

Besides, he could stand being around this team, and he trusted them. He'd've brought Nightcrawler along too, but blending into crowds wasn't one of his strong points, especially when the crowd was a milling mass of mutant-hating bigots.

Jubilee's expression at that was dubious, at best. Logan ignored her, pulling on his jacket as he faced the rest of the team. "We all ready?"

They boarded the Blackbird. Rogue took her place at the controls with Storm taking co-pilot. Logan gave her a sideways glance as he buckled up.

"You got it, kid?"

Rogue was awake enough to shoot him a glare as she started take-off procedures. "Ah fly better than you, so buckle in and shuddup."

"In your dreams, darlin'."

* * *

Finding parking in D.C. is never the easiest thing, but when it came to finding a landing spot for an improved jet, there was no chance, even with its stealth technology. Rogue was to stay in the 'bird and keep out of sight.

"Just get us close to an alleyway," Logan said, looking out the window to the streets and buildings that were just now beginning to be lightened with the beginnings of dawn. "We'll get on down the rest of the way, and walk. Stay on the radio in case we need you to come on down."

Rogue nodded, bringing the ship to hover next to a rooftop as the door lowered.

"Take Kitty," Logan told Storm. The kid was just learning that she could walk on air in her phased state if she concentrated hard enough, but Logan wanted speed, and didn't want to worry about the kid getting distracted and falling.

"I'll be back in a moment," Storm said. She picked up Kitty and flew out, and Logan eyed the twenty-foot drop before stepping out and falling. He landed on his feet in a crouch, his teeth vibrating with the impact, and then stood, ignoring the burning of the healing bruises from the landing. He moved to the edge of the building, then dropped the three-stories to the alley below. Storm and Kitty landed beside him as he adjusted his hat, as it had almost been blown off during the fall.

"I was going to come back for you," Storm said.

"No need," Logan replied, shrugging her off. He pulled out a cigar. "Let's move. We've got three blocks over and four up ta get to Hank's." He adjusted the small radio on his collar. "You still with us, darlin'?"

"You bet'cha, you crazy loon," Rogue replied. "Up in the clouds, now. With the stealth mode on the only way they're gonna find me is by runnin' inta me."

"Well, make sure that doesn't happen."

"C'mon, sugah. Don't tell me ya don't trust me."

"Don't get me started," Logan muttered, then fell silent as they came out of the alleyway onto the street.

They headed down the block, but already Logan could hear it. They'd come early in hopes that the crowds might be asleep, but by the sound of things that hadn't been enough.

Prejudice and bigotry never sleeps.

Kitty stopped stand-still, staring at the packed street before them. Bigoted signs blasted the crowd's sentiments at them, and despite the early hour the noise was almost deafening. Logan's jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed.

"Oh my gosh," Kitty breathed. Logan passed by her, putting a hand on her back and helping her keep moving.

"Keep walkin'," Logan whispered. She'd seen it on TV, but pictures were never the same as reality. The whole city reeked of hatred. It made his claws itch.

Friggin' Nazis.

_He could still remember it—all colorless and grey as hell. Grey faces, grey eyes, grey skin and mud and desperation. He could still smell the death, the blood, the hatred. Cold grey barbed-wire fences and a grey smoke too sweet—too awful. The stench made him sick, made him rage._

But that hadn't been in his dream.

He gritted his teeth, shaking his head. He took a long draw on his cigar, consciously unclenching his hands as he felt Storm's gaze on him.

_Damn, he finally really was going crazy—if he hadn't been crazy all along._

The animal wanted out, and it was more difficult than usual to push it back, seeing as there was little more he wanted to do than to beat the shit out of these clowns. A few years ago he probably would have.

Damn Xavier.

But the professor had been right. Beating these bastard five times to hell and back again would do a whole lot more harm than good, even if it would have left him feeling a hell of a lot better.

He pushed down the rage, breathing shallow and focusing on the scent of the gutter-slime instead of the hatred reeking around them. It smelled a whole lot better, after all.

They moved through the press of the crowd, ignoring the leaders who were already standing on their platforms, shouting out sentiments that made the crowds mill about, all but snarling like wild beasts on a hunt.

"They are all around us!" a megaphone screamed. "Do you want these freaks teaching our kids? ARE WE GOING TO LET A GENERATION OF MAGNETOS WALK BACK IN HERE AND TAKE CONTROL WITHOUT A FIGHT?"

"NO!"

Logan kept a hand on Kitty's back, and noted that Storm was keeping close.

"FREAKS SHOULD GO BACK TO WHERE THEY CAME FROM!"

"LOCK 'EM UP!"

He was growling under his breath as they walked, but no one had recognized them yet.

"You hear what they call him? The Beast. 'Cause he's nothin' more than an animal, y'know . . . ."

"They say he's supposed to leave this morning. They're just letting him walk away scot-free, if you believe it—"

"Filthy mutie—"

The madness slowed them down—too much. They came to a road blocked off and packed, and Logan took off his hat, scowling at the wall of people before them. "Great," he grumbled. "Now what?"

Somehow Beast leaving that morning had leaked out. Knowing politics, government, and human nature in general, Logan bet it was a leak from the inside.

Suddenly there was a stir near the front, and a small, pale man climbed onto the stand.

"Can't you hear what you're saying?" he shouted. "These people can't help what they are. Magneto was one man—would you condemn a whole people because of the act of one man!"

The shouting rose to deafening volumes, and a dozen men rushed the platform, their intent clear. Logan clenched his hands, ready to push forward, when there was a gust of wind and a blur of blue, and suddenly the brave speaker was twenty feet back from the masses, being set down by a tall, lithe stick of a man. His hair was so pale it was practically white, and he wore an odd blue suit that made the X-Uniforms look like Milan's best.

"Break it up, people! There is no need for violence!"

"FREAKIN' MUTIE! GET OUT OF OUR CITY!" A bottle flew at the young man, but he ducked—or Logan thought he'd ducked, but a second later he had appeared two feet to the side.

A mutant. What was this clown playing at? Suicide? Or slaughter? Logan didn't really care—either way it was something that was slowing them down.

"Yes, we are mutants!" another voice said, practically appearing as she pushed from the crowd to stand beside the young man. Maybe she'd been invisible, 'cause Logan couldn't see how the scarlet red uniform and cape she wore could have passed through unnoticed. "We are members of the Avengers, assembled by the President of the United States. You will stand down!"

The people looked a lot less eager to fight two mutants, especially with government backing. The noise lowered, and the mob hesitated.

Kitty, Logan, and Storm had pulled back against the wall. "The Avengers?" Logan shouted over the noise.

"Yes, America's super-hero team," Storm replied. "Do you not ever watch the news, Logan?"

Logan didn't grace that with a response, partly because he was distracted as a dark blur streaked across the sky, then swooped down. It was another woman—blonde, wearing what looked like a black swimsuit with a lightning bolt across her torso, and a red sash around her waist. A small mask around her eyes was either a disguise or a joke, 'cause it didn't do a thing to hide her features.

Damn, another hottie mutant. She didn't land, but hovered over the two mutants, talking briefly and too softly to be heard before she took off again, darting into the sky. The crowd watched her go, scattering after her. They murmured still, but the bloodwrath had passed.

"Damn," Logan said, looking after where the blonde had flown off. "So you know 'bout these clowns?"

"The fast one is Quicksilver," Storm said. "Pietro Maximoff is his true name." She nodded to where he had stood, but the blue-clad mutant had already sped off, leaving the scarlet-caped woman to escort off the bold, but foolish, speaker. "She is his sister—Wanda Maximoff, called the Scarlet Witch. Reality-warper, class four."

"And blondie?"

"Ms. Marvel. Flies, near-invulnerable. The president probably called them in to keep things from getting out of control."

"Nice," Logan said. Why did America support one super-hero team while it attacked another? A better question, why were these people working for the government in the first place? Whose side were they on? He started moving forward again. "She sure calmed them down fast."

"She is not a mutant," Storm admitted. "I do not know the full story, but her powers are not natural."

Sounded like a long story. "So bein' born different now rates under bein' made different. Cute," Logan summed up. And they wondered why he stayed away from people for years on end.

They walked more quickly. The crowd had settled, though the streets were still crowded, they seemed to sense an air about Logan, or perhaps recognized his expression as a man who wouldn't take any nonsense, because the crowd moved around him, though he didn't seem to really notice.

A soft roaring sound caught Logan's ear and he looked up as another person flew by overhead. At least, he thought it was a person. Looked like a new-age red-and-yellow spacesuit.

"Another Avenger?"

"Iron Man—real name Tony Stark," Kitty said, showing off her own knowledge of the team. "Again, not a mutant—he invented that suit himself. The whole team is real popular, Logan. Practically rock-star status since they were organized last year. Jubilee has a huuuuuuuuge crush on Stark."

He'd heard of Stark. Some inventor company—Xavier'd used some of his gadgets on the mansion's security.

That explained why the crowd seemed even calmer than before, if anything. Non-mutant superheroes were acceptable, apparently—even revered, by the way some of the rioters stared after him.

Well, hell. How many of these clowns were there? "What they avengin'?"

"I am sorry?"

"The Avengers," Logan repeated. "What are they avenging?" _Dead kid soldiers? Spilled blood splashed with mud? _ "Someone insult their mommas, or somethin'?"

Storm stared at him. "I . . . do not know," she admitted.

"Well, hell," Logan murmured. "Maybe I'll ask if I can join."

They walked in silence, surrounded by the murmurings of the crowds, but things were breaking up. The Avengers being there was doing some good, though thousands of people still packed the streets, and even as Iron Man flew from the street the leaders stood up tall again and shouted against mutants.

Sometimes free speech really sucked.

And then, he heard something else.

Logan froze in his steps, cocking his head. "Did you hear that?" he asked Storm.

"Hear what?" Storm asks.

Logan picked up his pace again, pushing through the crowd. "Trouble."

TBC . . . .


	28. Methodless Madness

Sorry for the short chapter, but school has turned demonic on me.

Reviews help. ;)

Hope you like it!

* * *

Chapter 28: Methodless Madness

* * *

_Now:_

Logan pushed through the crowd in earnest, shoving through where the protestors didn't move fast enough. He came to a street and darted across, running right over a car's hood without slowing. Kitty and Storm followed, trying to keep up without creating a full-out riot at the same time.

He could see the building where Hank worked. A mass of humanity boiled on its steps, with fists and curses flying. The Avengers hadn't been here to stop this fight.

He could smell the blood already.

Hank'd already come out. He couldn't see him, and that made him assume the worst.

He pushed in—not popping his claws, but not exactly pulling his punches either. The people he hit went down and stayed down.

Kitty and Storm stopped as they caught up, and stared at the mess

"What is happening here?" Storm demanded, grabbing a man's arm as he hurried away from the fight. He was pale and looked near panicked.

"They shot him!" he said. "S-someone shot the representative. But hey—I ain't a part of this, y'know?"

Storm let him go, feeling faint. The man ran off, not needing any more encouragement.

"Find Logan and Beast and get them out of there, Kitty."

Putting discretion aside, Storm rose into the air, her eyes went white as she looked up, immediately calling down a very hard wind. "This should cool their hot tempers." Lightning flashed down from the sky, cracking dangerously, but not touching anyone. Electricity danced over Ororo's skin, giving her an ethereal appearance. Rain poured from the sky, drenching the crowd in seconds.

The crowd panicked, running and pushing each other as they fled, afraid that they were under attack by this mutant witch.

Logan ignored the cold and rain, still plunging forward. Some fools still weren't running, and Logan grabbed one by the collar and chucked him at one of his pals. His buddies charged him, and Logan popped his claws.

"_Logan, you have to get to Hank," _Ororo called over the radio. "_I think he's been shot."_

Logan didn't bother to reply. He'd figured as much, or worse. The gunshot is what he'd heard initially.

"You wanna go, bad boys? Let's play," Logan snarled. The clowns were smart—they turned and high-tailed it out of his way. Logan ran forward, finally sighting blue fur. He shoved aside the idiots who hadn't already fled.

Storm swooped down on the wind, then stopped quickly as she saw Logan reach Hank. The crowd fell back, the rioters fleeing the reach of Logan's claws as he chased them back.

Kitty had phased through the whole thing, and now reached Logan's side as he bent down, checking Beast's pulse. Kitty stopped stand-still, her face paling.

"Oh my God."

The crowd hadn't gone far, but hovered back as Storm dropped to Hank's side. "Goddess," she breathed. "Logan, is he—"

"He's breathin'," Logan replied. Didn't want to say much more—the Beast was not in good shape at all. His leg was twisted at an unnatural position, and through his torn suit he could see he was heavily beaten. Papers had scattered around him, and the ones beneath him were staining scarlet. Logan's boots cracked on glass and he looked down to see Hank's shattered glasses.

Damn it. If Beast'd fought back these clowns wouldn't have stood a chance.

Logan grabbed his collar, holding his radio close as the rain thinned around them. He could see the bullet hole in Hank's chest, but the bruises and broken bones said that things had gone downhill from there. Damn.

"Rogue, ya hear me?"

"_Storm just told me what happened. You got Beast?"_

"Yeah. Hurt bad, though. I need you down here now."

"_On mah way, sugah_," Rogue replied, sounding grim.

Hank shouldn't be heading anywhere but a hospital, but given the situation, Logan didn't think they could trust it. He never liked hospitals, anyway.

The mob was inching forward again—Logan could smell their hatred rising over their fear, and the mixture made his nose itch. Wolverine stood, glaring at them and the protest-signs-turned-clubs. He popped his claws.

"Logan—" Storm began.

"Stay close to him, you two. Kitty, if you need to just phase all of you and sit tight until Rogue gets here."

Logan stalked forward, bristling his best—more to scare them than anything else, but ready to get dirty if need be.

He hadn't gone three steps when a bullet plugged clean through his chest.

A good shot—he had to give them that. Clean through the right lung, and damn nasty.

Wolverine bolted forward, grabbing the culprit and decking him—barely remembering to withdraw his claws at the last moment. He fell like a brick, and his buddies piled on. Logan's head rang as a wooden rod snapped over it, and he struck out, leveling them with a metal fist.

Another flash of silver out of the corner of his eye warned him of another gun. He popped his claws, whirling to shred it—

And something smashed into him, hard as a sentinel's fist.

A flash of blurred blue told him the identity of his attacker. Quicksilver.

Great. The Avengers had arrived—five minutes too late.

Logan flew through the air to smash and skid into the ground. Storm reacted instantly, blasting his attacker with a cold wind so hard that the light-weighted fellow got literally swept off his feet into the air. Logan jumped to his feet, ready for blur-boy to come back, but then saw the scarlet-clad lady rise up, her hands shooting out. Storm was struck by an invisible wall and went spinning, falling over unconscious bodies and landing hard.

Already riled up with blood, the mob went completely mad, rushing in heedlessly.

Everything went to hell.

Kitty ducked over Hank, grabbing his arm and phasing. She couldn't see Storm or Wolverine, and Beast was too heavy for her to lift and carry out of there. She just shut her eyes and held on as all hell erupted around them.

Storm rose into the air before the three angry mobsters could grab her. She summoned up rain again, and it began pouring, as the Scarlet Witch raised her hands, gesturing at her. Storm was struck with sudden vertigo, and she cried out as she spun, her winds rising in her confusion. She fell to the ground, holding her head, but struck out, the air screaming its fury. The Scarlet Witch ducked low, hugging the ground as the mob was blown back around her. She gestured again, and Storm felt an invisible box closing in around her, locking her in.

"Goddess, no!" she cried, terror building in her. "I will not—be—trapped!"

She rose into the air again, lightning turning the sky white as rain and wind whipped down in a torrent.

To the side, Quicksilver darted back, and Wolverine had no chance to block as a blow sent him spinning. Blood poured down his face as he staggered, but kept his feet. Seven more consecutive blows in one second made him reel back into the ground, and before he could rise a hand grabbed his hair and slammed his face into the concrete. Logan felt his nose smash, and blood ran down his throat.

"Whothehelldoyouthinkyouare?" Quicksilver shouted furiously, his words hard to make out has he shot them out into the wind. "We'vefoughtformutantpeace, andyou _fools_ comesweepingintodestroyitall!"

Logan jerked back his head, smashing Quicksilver's nose. The young man's head shot back, his nose pouring blood, and Logan moved as he was stunned, elbowing him in the gut and hearing something crack in his chest. Logan grabbed him by the throat, his face a bloody mess as he snarled at him.

"You kids ain't got no idea what's goin' down here!" he shot, freezing rain mixing with his blood and running down his face. "Open yer eyes and look around, ya flamin' idiot!"

The Scarlet Witch had seen her brother fall, and now ran at them through the wind, her attack on Storm momentarily forgotten.

"Pietro!" she cried, "No!" She gestured, and Logan felt himself jerked away. He slammed into the walk, the concrete cracking beneath him, and suddenly his skin erupted into flames.

"Touch my brother! You bastard!" she screamed at him over the noise.

He roared, rolling in the puddles as his skin blackened and cracked. Still smoldering, he rose up, charging at her in fury. Agony shot through his head and he staggered, pulling his hands over his ears as blood leaked from them. He dove at her, but she slammed a kick into his head, hard enough to knock him to the side. He fell but immediately rolled back to his feet—reeling, but standing. The Scarlet Witch's eyes widened.

"What the hell are you!"

She held out her hands, and Logan felt the weight of a hundred Blobs pressing down on him. He fell slammed onto his knees, trying to remain upright, but the pressure made his arms buckle and he collapsed onto the cement, his vision turning red with blood.

Storm came back to herself, freed from the Scarlet Witch's power. She was breathing hard and sweat mixed with the rain on her skin, but she looked up to the sky, calming her winds slightly, though the rain continued to pour.

"Rogue? Rogue, can you hear me?" Her voice shook despite herself.

Silence. She must have fried her radio, or smashed it during the fight.

There was no need, though, because a new wind pushed into the street as the Blackbird descended, buffeted but steady in Storm's wind. Luckily the street had cleared considerably by this point, and she landed unhampered. The ramp lowered and Rogue ran out, her streaked hair whipping in the remaining wind.

The Scarlet Witch whipped around from Wolverine's weakly twitching body, staring at the plane. She threw out her hands to the remnants of the panicked and soaked people around her, and they were pushed back. They needed no more encouragement, and the last of those still conscious turned and ran. Wanda Maximoff turned her sights back to Ororo.

Unnoticed still by the Scarlet Witch in her fury and due to the downpour, Kitty still clung close to Beast. At Rogue's call she raised her head.

"C'mon," Rogue said. "We gotta get him inside."

Lightning shot from the Scarlet Witch's hands towards Ororo, who deflected it to the sky easily. An invisible force grabbed Ororo, wrenching her from the sky and shaking her.

"What do you mean by this show, weather witch?" the Scarlet Witch shouted. "My brother and I have worked for years to get people to trust us, despite us being mutants. You are destroying it all!"

Behind her, unnoticed, Wolverine rose to his knees, silent in blood. Rogue ran back down the ramp of the Blackbird and began to run towards them.

"Why are you fighting us!" Storm shot back. "You are what? A lapdog to rich men who feed off the blood of mutants. You are nothing but a cannibal—a vampire to your own people!"

Logan had managed to get to his feet. He staggered forward jerkily, and the Scarlet Witch heard him at last. She started to turn, startled. Too slowly. Logan grabbed at her, ready to lay her down flat.

Ms. Marvel appeared from through the rain. Her fist slammed Logan's face into the cement and he went down like a rock. She flew down, landing and grabbing the back collar of his half-burnt coat.

"I don't like people sneaking up on my teammates, hairy," Ms. Marvel shouted. "What are you? Some new Brotherhood of Mutants? You—" She flipped him over, slamming him back against the cement, but then froze, her eyes widening as she saw the flesh crawling back over Logan's ruined face.

"Logan!" she gasped, her fist sinking from where she had been pulling back threateningly.

"No! Ah won't let yah hurt him any more!" Rogue lunged at Ms. Marvel, and in her shock the superhero didn't react in time before Rogue slammed into her from behind, her grabbing onto the sides of her face with her bare hands, ready to suck her powers away.

But she wasn't ready for what happened next.

Logan was blinded as light flashed brighter than lightning, and Ms. Marvel shot into the air wildly, screaming. Rogue still held onto her, and both of their screams mixed eerily, howling in the wind as both women arched back in agony.

Rogue struggled to let go, but her hands were stuck—bound with electricity to Ms. Marvel's face, and power rushed into her—like lightning, overrunning her nerves, filling her up with strength, and memories, and emotion—

"ROGUE!" Logan howled, staggering to his feet.

The Scarlet Witch whirled to the noise, and Storm took the distraction to break free. She darted towards the duo, intent on helping. The Scarlet Witch saw her, and spun back, her eyes wide. She threw out her hand . . . and Storm vanished.

"Ororo!" Logan shouted, but it was no good. He ran and leaped, grabbing Ms. Marvel's foot and dragging both her and Rogue down. They hit the ground hard, and Logan grabbed Rogue's sleeve, trying to pull her off Ms. Marvel, but her hands were stuck good, and Rogue was still screaming and didn't seem to hear him. He grabbed her arm and Ms. Marvel's face, using all his strength to jerk them apart.

Rogue went flying, but the screams stopped, and Logan looked down at Ms. Marvel. She was ghost-pale and limp, her eyes closed. At least she was breathing, albeit shallowly.

He left her, running to Rogue, who was lying unconscious some feet away. He picked her up, careful not to make skin contract. Behind him the Scarlet Witch knelt down beside Ms. Marvel, trying to get her to wake up.

The rain was vanishing without Storm to keep it going, and even as the sunlight began to shine down into the street a new shadow loomed over them. Logan looked up to see the Blackbird hovering above the street, the ramp still lowered.

It touched down briefly and Logan staggered on board. The ramp pulled up behind him, and he grabbed a blanket from a storage locker and pulled it around Rogue before laying her on the ground as they rose up. Beast took up the only gurney.

"You got it up there, kid?" Logan called to Kitty, pulling off his melted and charred jacket and chucking it away from him. He sounded funny—his nose was still broken, and his own voice sounded far away, but he ignored the pain along with the burning of healing.

"Yeah," Kitty replied, and though her voice shook she took to the skies, her hands flying across the controls. Storm would have had a fit if she were here, but Kitty'd spent more time in the simulator than Rogue, and had a better hand at technology, so Logan trusted her. Besides, this wasn't the first time she'd flown, even if Storm didn't know it. "How are they, Logan?"

"Just get us home," he said, wiping blood from his eyes. He made Rogue as comfortable as he could, but didn't know what else to do beyond that. She was physically unharmed—not even a scratch or a bruise from her fall. Storm'd said that Ms. Marvel had been near-invulnerable—maybe that was responsible for this mess. He'd just have to wait until she woke up.

He stood, keeping a hand on the wall as they accelerated to the skies as he turned his attention to Beast. He washed his hands and got to work.

TBC . . . .


	29. Fury

Longer chapter after the long break. Sorry about the wait!

Hope you like it. Love to hear from you guys. Reviews will definitely help me through these weeks of crazy school.

* * *

Chapter 29: Fury

* * *

_Now:_

Logan carried Rogue to the medical lab, and Kitty pushed Beast's gurney behind them, doing a surprisingly good job of maneuvering the large blue feral for her own slightness, and holding herself well despite the stink of her own fear and near-panic. She held up well under pressure. He'd known it before, but it was good to be reminded.

He could use that in the future. Kid might be young and small, but she had a good head on her shoulders.

He put Rogue on the medical bed and pulled Beast beside her. He turned sharply to Kitty.

"Find 'Crawler and tell him what happened, and get me a phone," he ordered, putting his attention on Hank. Kitty turned to go, and he barked out. "The phone first, kid."

Kitty didn't speak, but just nodded and ran off right through the wall, not bothering with the door. She returned just seconds later to find Logan sniffing through the cabinets, pulling out bottles and bandages haphazardly.

Logan took the phone—Kitty didn't even think he noticed the blood soaked up to his wrist, and put it under his arm as he loaded up the medical cart. He pushed it next to Hank's bed and took the phone in hand.

"Logan," Kitty said softly, staring at Hank. She couldn't seem to look away. "Shouldn't we call a doctor, or—?"

"Find Kurt, tell him what happened," Logan repeated over her, standing over Beast and pulling back the blood-soaked makeshift bandage over his chest. "No hospital's safe for him right now, especially with what just went down out there."

"But—"

"Get the hell out of here, kid!" Logan snarled.

Kitty blanched and hurried out through the wall once again.

The bleeding had all but stopped from the bullet wound, which was good. Hank had claimed a slight healing factor of his own at one point, and that was probably the reason he was still alive.

"Damn," Logan muttered, picking up the phone. He stared at it for a moment, and then dialed a number slowly. He lifted it to his ear, holding it there with his shoulder as he began cleaning Hank's wounds—his hands moving almost of their own accord.

"Papa Pizza's Delivery Service. How can we help you today?"

"Get me Fury." He'd always wondered what would happen if he ordered a triple-cheese, all-meat pizza—large size. Would these clowns actually deliver the damn thing?

"Sorry?"

"This is an emergency, so cut the crap. Get me Fury or you could have a national crisis on your hands." He'd deliver that, see how they liked it.

Damn. Bullet was still wedged in there. Sure made a mess before coming to a stop, though. Hollow-point bullet, .357 caliber, though the bullet had been flattened enough that it was hard to tell. This was no hunting gun.

_SNIKT._

"Your code?"

"Wolverine." Ah. Got it. He took hold of the bullet with his fingers. It slipped in his grip, but he got it out.

"That isn't a—"

"Goddamn it, how'd'ya think I got this number? _TELL FURY!"_ Logan snarled, dropping the twisted remains of the bullet on the floor. Beast was looking pale beneath the mud and blood—an odd baby-blue tinge to his cheeks.

" . . . . " Blood stained the cloths. Hank's suit was torn and slick, his shirt ripped away. Logan's hands dripped with blood, and he had to pause to wipe some of it off. Couldn't hold the needle with his fingers slippery with it. "Please hold."

_Stupid government bastards . . . ._

Found a sliver long as his hand wedged in Beast's side—broken protest stake, or something. He left it there. Pulling it out would mean more blood, and right now he just had to stop it. He moved on—cleaning, stitching. Blood stained his arms scarlet.

"Fury here."

He stopped to adjust the phone, not noticing the blood he smeared against his own cheek before getting back to work. "This is Wolverine."

"Logan. I thought you weren't ever going to contact us again."

Logan. Sure, Fury had called him Wolverine more than enough times, but there was something in the way he said it—something different. To most of those government clowns, he was Wolverine. Most probably didn't even know his real name, let alone care about it.

How much did this manipulating bastard know?

Far more than he was willing to tell.

Logan went right to the point. "You know what went down in D.C. You've got pull—I want you to do your thing, keep any clowns off our back."

Here came the stake of wood. Damn—gone deep. Was gonna be nasty. He pulled it out, working quickly to clean it before applying pressure.

"After you attacked a crowd and left thirty-seven American citizens in the hospital?"

"Minor concussions and bruises," Logan snapped, blood seeping between his fingers. Beast groaned softly beneath him. Waking up? Damn, for Beast's sake he hoped not. All this mess would hurt like hell—he knew that for himself. "Maybe a couple broken bones. If I wanted to make trouble it would have been a hell of a lot worse. You know that."

"You broke Quicksilver's nose and four ribs—affectively putting him out of commission—and Carol is in the hospital in a coma for unknown causes. The Scarlet Witch is swearing for your head, and we've been working the last half an hour to keep Iron Man from going nuclear on us. Taking out half of America's superhero team is 'a hell of a lot worse' in anyone's book."

Logan had to admire how an all-business guy could spit out "Scarlet Witch" and "Iron Man" without so much of a hint of self-consciousness. The man was either way too good, or he took himself far too seriously. With Fury, it was probably both.

Beast shifted as he began stitching up his side. Logan cursed silently, trying to keep the stitches even. He was half tempted to knock the diplomat over his furry head. He'd be happier unconscious.

"Some bigoted idiot shot Hank McCoy. The X-Men were there just in case something like this happened, but those damned Avenger clowns got in the way."

"What?"

"Crowd got outta control. I'd have Beast tell ya about it, but he's kind of in the OR right now, right here, and I got a kid here in a coma 'cause of your Marvel-chick." At least Hank'd gone still again. He hoped that was a good thing.

The line was silent for a second. Nick Fury, speechless? Guess there was a first time for everything.

"Damn," Fury swore. "The Avengers are going to get hell for this."

"You just gotta keep back the Avengers, the army, the Freedom Fighters or whoever the hell else they are cobbling up to come after us, 'cause this whole screwing mess ain't our fault."

"You're asking an awful lot after leaving us like you did, Logan."

"You owe me."

"You were compensated."

"You know I don't give a damn about money. And you let an army come in here, Fury, and it'll be a massacre. Beast and Storm ain't the only fighters we've got." And they'd be ready. Rogue was down, but he still had a full team—Nightcrawler, Iceman, Colossus, Kitty, Angel, and Jubilee, and a number of less experienced kids, if it came down to that. Not exactly the most experienced team, and their scruples against killing would definitely be a detriment. Still, Fury didn't need to know the details.

And Wolverine could take down an army on his own. And he would, if he had to.

But that didn't mean he wanted to—especially not right now. He could still echoes of pain through his body—ringing down his bones—from the Scarlet Witch's beating. Beast was bleeding to death under his hands, Rogue was still out like a light, and the Devil knew what had happened to Storm.

Superhero teams were supposed to be against killing.

Well, unless they had him on the team, that is.

But if Storm _was_ dead, half a superhero team getting taken out was going to be the least of Fury's problem. Wolverine'd be back to finish the job, starting with the Scarlet Witch and anyone who got in his way.

"I thought you were no one's guard dog, Wolverine."

Logan gave a soft growl. "I don't got all day here, Fury." Beast's breathing was stabilizing—there might be internal bleeding, but at least it didn't sound like his lungs had been pierced by his broken ribs. Good thing Beast was made out of more sturdy material than the average guy.

"I'll do what I can," Fury said.

"Good. While you're at it—Storm's gone MIA. The Scarlet Bitch made her disappear, and I wanna know what the hell she's done to her." Hopefully she wasn't dead—but who knew what the red witch could have done with her. "Find out or I'll find out for myself."

"I said I'll do what I can," Fury replied.

They ended the call. Logan knew that wasn't the end—contacting Fury'd been his last resort, and he'd have to pay for it in the future. But he'd would deal with that when he had to.

Later.

Logan took the phone and dropped it on the tray next to the shrinking pile of clean bandages and kept working.

* * *

_Dunno how I knew what to do. Just saw Hank lyin' there and got to work. Ten-letter words started popping into my head, naming bones and muscles and organs. Head hurt, so I just stopped thinkin'._

_I'm a killer. I'm the best at what I do. But healing? I guess that's somethin' I ain't ever tried a hand at._

_Not really._

_It'd be lyin' to say that it was like I was a doctor in this past life. I just looked and saw. I've done it before—I can rate an injury on how bad it is just by a glance at it. Guess it comes from hurtin' 'n killin' so many people like I have._

_Then I started seein' them—lyin' there, in rows, on rough cots, on filthy blankets—sometimes just on the ground—blood mixin' with dirt. Filth and blood and pain stinkin' the tents up like doomsday—the dead and dying separated from those that'd be able to go home with only a missing limb or two. Or three._

_Didn't have enough nurses for them, either. Had to make do. Tried to help what little I could. Field medicine, that was all—but it saved lives, even if most of 'em died._

_Saw more rows, more tents—bodies lined up, torn up, blown up, missin' limbs, skin, bodies, faces. Flies buzzed, and it stank to hell._

_Stitched Beast up and lined up his bones. Hope I did it right—can't remember ever setting a bone, but it felt all right. Maybe before I got these damned metal bones of mine I got pretty good at it. Can't figure how often I must've broken 'em._

_Beast looks like a blue version of Frankenstein. Sure hope he heals as good as he claims._

* * *

_Then:_

"Wolf Spirit . . . ."

_He shifted, searching for the familiar scent as he heard the voice._

_He knew that voice. Like velvet over a sharpened knife. He moved towards it blindly, his eyes shuttered in darkness as he felt the cold snow beneath him._

_Warm hands reached out, brushing his face, across his brow. Strong hands, but still small—even delicate. Her voice was beautiful, her voice wild._

"Wolverine . . . ."

_Him? Yes, that was him. It was his name—as much his name than any other name he'd ever had, because it was given to him by her._

_Wolverine . . . ._

_. . . . _

_. . . _

Wolverine jerked awake abruptly, his nose twitching madly for a scent that wasn't there.

But there was something there—something . . . .

He sat up, rubbing his eyes and looking around blurrily. Dried blood flaked from his face.

Someone had been calling him? Or had that been before? Or maybe just one of those dreams—whatever they meant.

He smelled . . . he smelled . . .

Meat.

It was right there, just out of arm's width—cooked but cooled. Two large metallic-green flies were crawling over the browned surface while a third buzzed around it.

He sat up, squinting at the bright light of the sun that shone through the boughs of the tree above him. He felt sick—nauseous and weak, like after he'd eaten the poison those many months ago.

_What the hell?_

Where was he? He'd been . . . he was . . . .

Oh . . . .

Oh, yeah.

Damn.

He flinched at the sudden memories. They ran together, but cut sharp—bright, painful, deafening.

He shook his head slowly, bringing a hand to his head.

Didn't matter. Forget it.

He felt funny. Light, but heavy. Everything felt distant—muted, but at the same time the light burned into his eyes like fire, blurring his sight. His bones ached, his lungs felt like a grizzly was sitting on his chest, and his stomach sat like a ball of lead in his gut.

He hoped there weren't any bullets stuck in there. He didn't want to have to worry about getting them out again.

His hand was shaking against his forehead, and he brought it down, frowning at it.

Why was he shaking? He wasn't cold. In fact, he felt hot. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, dry, and his breath came in quick pants in the heat.

He clenched his fist, and the shaking slowed. Almost stopped. Distracted, he looked up again, trying to remember how he'd gotten here.

Blood had soaked into the ground beneath him. It smelled old—stale. He'd guess a day at least.

He was missing . . . something.

Ah, damn. The kid.

Where was the kid?

His scent was all over—even pretty close to him. Wolverine could see the remains of a small fire scattered a safe distance away. Stupid. Smoke would draw their hunters like vultures to carrion.

But that was it, wasn't it? Where were their hunters? They knew they were injured and weakened. Why hadn't they followed?

Wolverine rose to his knees cautiously. The world tilted beneath him, so he only rose to a low crouch before crawling forward and taking hold of the scrap of meat.

It was beginning to stink, but Wolverine had eaten worse. He dug into it, snarfing down the small amount of meat within seconds.

Half a rabbit, maybe. But at least this proved the kid could hunt when he needed to.

He tested the air. The meat had been sitting there for a couple hours, and it smelled like the kid'd taken off not long after.

He stood, still trying to scent him out through his own stink. He found the most recent trail and followed, keeping low and moving slowly.

It didn't take long to find him. The stink of blood was sharp enough that he could have found him with his eyes closed, even with the scent mixed with his own blood, the wood, and the river.

The river was slow-moving at this point—the water swirling almost sluggishly, and Wolverine licked his lips at the sight of it. But that could wait.

He looked up, listening and looking to the skies before inching out of the shade of the trees in a low crouch. He drew over the kid, who hadn't stirred at his approach.

Idiot kid.

Gambit lay sprawled on this stomach, his hair wet and his arm tucked under his head as a rough pillow. His hair was wet—it smelled like he'd taken a dunk before falling asleep. Still smelled faintly of blood, but it took more than a short swim to get that stink off.

But he was alive, and well enough. Breathing was good, and his face had color in it that he hadn't seen in days.

Wolverine sat down heavily, pressing his palm against his own forehead and shutting his eyes.

Damn, he was tired. Just woke up, and he already wanted to just lie down and sleep.

No time. They were after him, they were after them. He'd wake the kid and head north again. There were less people there, more wilderness. It'd be easy to disappear again; he'd always been good at disappearing . . . .

But it was never enough. Never enough . . . .

_. . . . couldn't . . . think . . . ._

God, he was tired of this. He just wanted . . . . _He wanted_ . . . .

Something.

Lots of somethings.

It was like hunger, like thirst. He wanted. He needed.

He just couldn't remember what.

The sound of water brought his head up. He was thirsty—his tongue was dry and his spit thick with blood.

He couldn't remember what he wanted, but he could start small.

Wolverine glanced at the slumbering kid one more time, then moved stiffly to the water's edge and crouching there. He almost lost his balance as he leaned over to drink—the world tilted dangerously, but he caught himself before falling face-first into the water.

_Healing . . . too slow. But the pain was passing—nothing like it was before. Just a dull ache, a dull throb, pounding, pounding, pounding . . . ._

The water was so cold it hurt going down—but it was a good cold. He drank deeply, water running down his chest as he drank like a man dying of thirst.

He was starving, even after the meat. Crazy bastards had bled him out like a stuck pig.

Too weak to hunt, though. Too tired.

_Th-thump. Th-thump._ Noise thudding around in his head. Too loud. Couldn't think.

He drank more, then paused, looking at his dogtags that hung from his neck and into the water. The metal was blood-smeared, but was rinsing off in layers, the blood swirling slowly to dilute into the water. He could almost make out his name.

He shook himself, looking out blurrily over the water.

Fish.

He moved to the side, exhaling softly. He felt heavy—strangely heavy, from his head to his fingertips. Felt like if he fell he'd leave a crater just from his own weight—maybe just sink into the earth and keep sinking down and down . . . .

He found a ledge of bank overhanging deeper water and carefully perched on the edge, still feeling off-balance. His fingers ached on the ground, feeling bruised despite no discoloration besides the filth. His ignored it, his eyes focused below the river's surface—watching, waiting, and his ears alert for any sound around him.

He could see the fish, flitting here and there like aquatic birds; too quick and too far to spear. But he could wait to strike. He was always good at waiting. He gripped onto the bank, his fingers digging into the dirt as the world tilted again.

Gambit shifted, and Wolverine spared a glance over, but the kid'd just rolled onto his side without waking.

He looked back down at the water, but then frowned, distracted from the fish by his reflection. His image shone back clear in the water, his hair shorter after having been burned off during the fight. He brought up a hand slowly, feeling the growing stubble the side of his face before pushing his hair from his forehead.

In his blurred vision, he really looked like a man, with the shorter hair. He could see his eyes, his face. Could have been almost any man's face, any man's eyes.

No shirt again, and his face and arms were smeared dark with drying blood—and now that he noticed it, it was rather uncomfortable. He must really be out of it to have forgotten all the blood. It stank like hell. But without his wild hair he could see his face, his eyes.

He didn't recognize himself.

Hell, he doubted he could have recognized himself out of a lineup.

A what?

"Wolverine? Dat you?"

Wolverine's head snapped up and around, and he threw out a hand to keep from falling clean over as his head spun.

_Stupid question. Who else would be out here like this?_

Gambit sat up, rubbing his face and smearing a spot of mud across his cheek. "Glad to see you up, mon ami. You al'righ'?"

Wolverine ignored him, rubbing his eyes and looking back down at the water and his reflection.

Remy stood and stretched as he came over. "Mon dieu, you look awful, petit. How you walk here, like dis?" He paused. "What you lookin' at?"

Too much a bother to think right now. Food. Drink. Then maybe he'd listen to the kid. Right now he was just getting in the way.

He couldn't think. The words jarred in his ears, like metal on metal. It hurt his teeth, and he grimaced, trying to block him out. Maybe he'd get the hint—go back to sleep. Let him sit, not thinking.

Gambit knelt down next to him a safe distance away, but peered in—his reflection falling next to Wolverine's.

"Ah," he said.

They were silent for a moment. A rabbit screamed and was cut off sharply as something killed it—far away. The kid probably couldn't hear it. A blue bird flitted overhead, casting an eye on them before darting away.

"You think dey come back?" Gambit asked, almost a whisper. For a second he stank of fear, and actually looked his young age.

Wolverine ducked his head, swallowing roughly. Maybe the kid'd go away if he ignored him. Couldn't think to talk right now. His stomach was rolling, and the kid's human stink wasn't helping. God, they were coming after them still, weren't they? He shouldn't be stopping, he _couldn't _stop . . . .

Be after him again. Gunfire ricocheting off rocks around him, off his bones, slicing through his skin and driving him down. Fire and gas and hate ripping him to shreds—

Blood and rage clotting up his lungs. He was going to be sick.

_Breathe._

It didn't matter. They weren't here now; the forest was silent. The kid wasn't them. They weren't there.

Block the kid out. Look for the fish. He had to get food first. Then he'd think.

Gambit pulled at grass on the bank's edge absently. "Dose people . . . dey . . . dey da ones who gave you da claws, petit?"

Gave him his claws?

How the hell would they do that? Why the hell would they . . . ?

Damn, his head hurt. Heart pounding around in there like a gong.

It didn't matter. It'd go away as he healed. He was just still weak from getting shot to pieces. Couldn't remember ever getting hit so bad.

"Dat's it," Gambit mused out loud, seemingly unbothered by being studiously ignored. "Dey gave you dem claws, and somehow you got 'way, but not 'fore dey drove you crazy first."

Wolverine glanced over at that, giving him an unreadable stare before turning back to the water. Encouraged for some reason by this, the kid continued.

"But you gettin' better. You not da animal dey think you are. Dat's how you got dem, didn't you? Dey thought you'd go down easier, non?"

He stepped forward, drawing close enough that Wolverine shuffled over a step to keep his personal space. "Listen, Canuck. I know you talk. You understan' what Gambit's sayin', non? Dere's jus' nothin' you wan' ta say, is dere?" He was watching him with a strange intensity, and it made Wolverine's skin crawl. He glared at him, baring a canine in a silent warning as he turned his back to him.

_Go away._

"You don' want ta hear dis? You tink dis'll all go 'way? Is it dat you don' want ta hear da answers, Wolvie, or dat you don' know how ta ask da questions?"

"Fine, Remy tell ya. You a man. You got a name—not Wolverine—like . . . Bob, or John, or Harry . . . ." He trailed off at Wolverine's sideways glance, holding up his gloved hands. "Don' look't me dat way! Gambit not da crazy one, here."

Wolverine looked away. "Shut th'hell up," he growled. Speaking hurt. Tasted like iron, like a serrated knife against rust.

"See? You talk fine. You come wit' Gambit. I got da money here still from da bar all dose days ago—we go t'Nawlin's. Da best place ta hide from dese guys'd be wit' u'der people—den we go huntin'. You smarter dan you look, Wolvie. Gambit tink—mon dieu!"

Wolverine suddenly plunged face-first into the water, and Gambit pulled back with a shout as water splashed over his face and front.

"Wolvie, you—!" Wolverine hadn't resurfaced yet, and Gambit leaned over, water dripping from his hair. The river had gone quiet. "Wolverine!"

Silence answered.

"Damn," Gambit breathed. He started pulling off his coat.

There was a loud gasp as Wolverine surfaced mid-stream. The dried blood was streaming down his face and staining the water around him. He swam towards shore and dragged himself out, shivering.

Gambit shrugged his coat back on and hurried to grab his arm. "You crazy, Canuck. Look ready to fall righ' over like dat, and you try ta go swimmin'?"

_SNAKT. _Wolverine pulled away from him.

Missed the fish. Too slow. Damn too slow.

Water was cold. Got him shivering all over again.

God, for a moment there the water had caught at him—dragging him down to the bottom, muscles too tired to pull him back to the air.

Weak. And still hungry. Breath was catching in his chest, like his lungs were half-full of water.

"So dat's it," Remy concluded, shaking water from his coat. "If you not gonna talk, I'll see. We go t'Nawlins."

Wolverine didn't even look at him, sitting down and shaking his head to scatter water droplets onto the ground, trying to breathe. He pressed against his forehead, twisting his fingers through his hair. He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering.

Why was the kid still talking?

"Don't gimme dat," Gambit said. "Oui, you take dese guys by surprise dis time—but dey'll be comin' again." Gambit crossed his arms, taking a safe step back. "What da matter? Scared, Wolverine?"

_Shut up. Shut up. You don't know what you're talkin' about._

"Dat's it," Remy nodded. "You scared. You scared to know what happened. You jus' wanna hide. How long you been out here, anyway? You got kids waitin' for you somewhere? Maybe a belle donna? You don' know? Don' you wanna find out?"

Wolverine crawled to his feet carefully, panting. He didn't like this. He didn't like the way the kid was looking at him, talking to him, like he knew something—like he could understand. Not even Wolverine understood—how could some damn kid?

His growl deepened in warning.

_Shut∙up∙shut∙up∙don't∙watch∙don't∙look∙eyes∙watching∙prying∙asking∙head∙spinning∙don't∙know∙don't∙think . . . ._

He put a hand to his head.

"You gon' ignore Gambit? Very nice, homme. Jus' like you ignore dose dreams, jus like you run away from de guys who chase you. You jus' run away and hide. Let dem chase you down like an animal, like a goddamn animal, 'cause dat's all you gonna be, like dis, runnin'—"

Wolverine staggered—grabbing onto a tree as his legs grew weak beneath him and his vision went white.

_Always running._

Breathe.

_But they'd always find him, wouldn't they? They'd always find him—hunt him, chase him, killing, killing killing. Ripping him open and picking him apart and changing his bones to fire and pain and hate . . . . _

Breathe!

His grip was hard and painful on the tree—his knuckles white from the grip as his fingernails dug into the bark.

He could hear a voice—distant, rambling. Didn't make sense at first.

"—when da last time you eat, mon ami? You sleep? You were all but dead, Wolvie. You gon' go get killed—not wit' guns or all dat crazy stuff. You gon' get so tired dey get you, cause you always runnin'—"

Wolverine snapped up, his eyes burning as he whipped around, grabbing the kid's throat so he hardly had time for a strangled yelp. He whipped him around, slamming him against the tree and leaning close to his face, trembling with fury.

"You. Don't. Know. What. The. Hell. You're. Talkin'. About!" Wolverine snarled.

Gambit's face had gone pale. He gasped in vain for air, struggling to speak.

A flex of his fingers and he wouldn't be his problem anymore.

One twitch, he wouldn't have to listen anymore. He'd be free.

His mouth was dry. He felt feverish—the water on his burning skin felt like ice. The air was freezing in his lungs, choking him.

Wolverine let go and Gambit slumped over, grabbing his throat and coughing as he gasped for air.

"Jus'—jus'—" The kid tried to speak. He looked up, his eyes wide, and for the first time fear shone in their red depths. "W-wo—"

_Kill him._

Wolverine stared at him, his fingers twitching.

_He was human. The enemy. Watching him and picking over him—_

_Chasing away his prey, making him weak. Get rid of him._

_Kill him._

NO!

No. Kid was stupid, but he couldn't kill him. He wasn't like the soldiers. He was a freak, a freak like him . . . .

_Not like him._

He pried his fingers from the kid's throat, turned, and bolted.

Adrenaline made up for exhaustion. He ran—disappearing into the wood and not slowing. He sliced at a foot-thick tree and sent it tumbling as he ran, the ripping sound as it fell.

Red colored his vision. His breath came in growls, and he trembled with fury.

But there was nothing to kill, nothing. Even if there was, it wouldn't be enough. He knew it.

This was a different kind of rage.

He bolted, startling a doe across a meadow and sending it darting away.

Something was wrong. Something was _wrong_.

_It was all wrong._

A rabbit darted across the path and he didn't hesitate. He leaped on it, snapping its neck as he caught it in his fingers. He popped his claws, ripping into it. He'd snarfed down half the meat in seconds.

The blood was bitter and hot. He hated it. He hated the claws gleaming with silver and blood in the light—hated the fading pain from popping them. Hated how the pain faded. Hated the damn sun and the damn trees and the damn dirt and smells and sounds and blood and meat. Hated the fur catching in his teeth, hated the dead eyes staring up at him—hated how he loved it, needed it, craved it.

His head spun as he twisted away, whipping the rabbit corpse away from him. It slammed into a tree, splashing the tree in red.

He hated crouching there in less than rags. Hated how blood and water stained his chest. Hated the men in his dreams and chasing him and hated men—all men. He hated so thick it made bile rise in his throat, mixing with hot blood, choking his breath. Hated ever seeing man, ever knowing he was man, ever knowing, ever thinking. Hated it all.

He turned back to the path, letting the red fill his vision—letting go.

"!"

It was easier. So much easier.

Weakness and pain forgotten—everything forgotten—he ran.

TBC . . . .


	30. Strangers

Sorry this chapter took so long coming out. If you've been reading for over a year at this point, you realize that this time of year is the worst when it comes to me finding the motivation and time to write and update periodically.

Finals and projects coming up in the next couple weeks aren't going to help.

But anyway, I'm still plugging away at this. Thanks for the reviews from last chapter—they always help a tons with both motivation and inspiration. I hope you continue to enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 30: Strangers

* * *

_I can handle flesh wounds._

_Things, people—they heal. If not, they die. Beast could go either way, but there's nothin' I can do about that now. Rogue, though . . . she's somethin' else._

_Promised to look after the kid, even if she does her damnedest to make that as hard as possible._

_Damn her. She should've known I'd'a been all right, instead of runnin' out like that. Worse Marvel-lady could'a done was kill me, and that wouldn't have lasted._

_Don't know what to do about this._

* * *

_Now:_

It took him a long time to wash all the blood off of him. Seemed like it spiraled down the gleaming sink for hours, swirling from his fingers, his hands, his arms—most of it not his own.

He never realized how healing could bring up as much blood as killing, if not more.

He still reeked of blood, and his hair and face were sticky from his own, but there was nothing to do about it now. He dried his hands off on the last clean linen and chucked it onto the blood-stained mound on the floor and turned, looking at Rogue.

She hadn't moved—hadn't changed. Her breathing was steady, her pulse slow but healthy. If he didn't know better he would have thought she was sleeping.

But this wasn't how it was supposed to be. The kid's power absorbed power, memories . . . whatever. It wasn't supposed to take _her_ out for the count.

Damn it.

Logan pulled a chair over, sitting down next to her and dry-washing his face. He stared at her, listening to Beast's ragged breathing, and her steady heartbeat.

* * *

_ Don't know what she was thinking. Probably wasn't. Stupid kid shoulda known better than anyone that I could take a beating and still get up from it. That's what my mutant powers do—I keep going, no matter what. I survive._

_But Rogue's powers messed her up this time—screwed her over like none of us expected. But who's t'say how it's supposed to work? It ain't like there're rules to our powers. It sure to hell ain't somethin' any of us signed up for._

_Damn mutant powers are anything but predictable. Some're simpler than others—like my healing, and claws. It ain't like I one day am gonna start spittin' ice like Fro-Boy, or shootin' beams outta my eyes. I just live, and kill. Some are more complicated, though._

_Who knows where Rogue's powers begin and end? It ain't like she goes around touching people experimentin', either. Outta everyone, her power's unknown._

_What the hell just happened out there?_

* * *

Logan was still sitting there, his face in his hands, when he heard movement behind him. He'd locked the door and there wasn't the _bamf_ or the stink of the elf, and couldn't smell anyone else in the room, so that left one person.

Logan swiveled on the stool (Who in the world had thought of a swivel-stool with wheels and adjustable height?). Beast was squinting blurrily up at him out of one eye—the other one was swollen black and blue and probably wouldn't be opening for a few days.

"Beast. How're ya feelin'?"

"Been better," Beast replied weakly. With half his face swollen he sounded like a drunk man. He looked down, taking notice of his bandages. "I . . . suppose I have . . . you to thank for this?"

"Thank the American citizens you've worked so hard to help."

"Ah." Beast shifted, but immediately stopped, cringing at the pain. He let out a long careful breath. "Would you mind . . . fetching me a good dose of morphine?"

Logan stared at him for a second. Oh. Painkillers.

He hadn't even thought of them.

"The refrigerator . . . on the right. That's it."

Logan just handed Hank the small bottle, letting the blue mutant inject himself with the drug.

"Thanks," he sighed, relaxing back into the bed.

"Yer not out of the woods yet, Beast."

"Close . . . 'nough," Hank mumbled, closing his eyes. As Logan watched he fell right back to sleep.

Drugs knocked the big guy out like a two by four never could.

Lucky bastard.

Logan sat back down, putting his arms on the side of Rogue's bed and letting his head thud softly on top of them. He stared at the floor—at some darkening bloodspots that had flecked onto the tiles.

Damn, he was tired. Healing had pulled enough out of him after the Scarlet Witch's beating. Felt like he could sleep for a week.

No time to rest. He had to get up—find Storm. Call Fury again, for all the good it'd do. He could start tracking down the Scarlet Witch, but—damn. The kids.

He couldn't just up and leave. Hank still needed attention, not to mention Rogue . . . and after the kids found out about this mess they'd likely flip. It'd be like Stryker all over again.

Storm, Beast, and Rogue in one blow. Damn.

He lifted his head, dry-washing his face before staring at Rogue.

Without a telepath, how in the world was he supposed to even know what was wrong?

He brushed her hair from her face, careful not to make contact with her skin.

"Come on, Rogue. I got enough to worry about righ' now without you pullin' a stunt like this . . . ."

To his surprise, Rogue actually stirred. He pulled back his hand as her eyes fluttered open.

"Darlin'? How're ya feelin'?"

She looked at him, blinked slowly, and sat up. She looked around the lab, her brow furrowed and her expression puzzled. She rubbed her head, grimacing.

"All right, short-stuff," she said, sounding a bit shaken. "What—what in the hell happened and where the hell are we?"

No southern accent. If anything, it sounded east-coast.

This wasn't Rogue talking.

He stood, immediately bristling. "Who are you?" he snarled.

Rogue's expression slammed down, turning guarded. She looked ready for a retort, but suddenly her expression froze, then changed. Her eyes widened, and her face drained of blood.

"L-logan?" she whispered, staring at him.

Her face spazzed—fear, confusion, anger running over her face. She reached up, tracing her own features, blood draining from her face.

"What have you done to me!" she screamed, then grabbed her head and doubled over. "No! No! Get outta mah head!"

And suddenly, she lifted right off the bed.

_Flying_, dammit.

If you could call it that.

She shrieked, shooting forward so fast that Logan couldn't even think about grabbing her before she slammed head-first into the wall, leaving a sizable dent. Logan leaped forward, grabbing her safely by her covered arms. She was stiff as a board, curled up, her hands over her head. He pulled one away, afraid of finding blood dripping down her face. A hit against the wall like that would've knocked him reeling.

Not even a bruise. He didn't know whether to be grateful of that or not.

"Darlin', listen to me." Rogue's eyes were shut tight, her teeth gritted as she fought an internal battle. He didn't even know if she could hear him. "You've gotta fight her!"

"Ah can't," Rogue sobbed, tears running down her face. "Ah . . . she's angry, Logan. What did ah—what did ah do? No! Leave me alone!"

Her eyes shot open, and her bare hands grabbed Logan's jacket. "Logan, help me!" the eastern-coast accent pleaded.

Okay, maybe for once fighting wasn't the best way. The kid was starting to lift up again—he was barely holding her to the ground with his full weight, and he didn't want her taking off right through the ceiling.

"Okay, okay. Listen to me. Listen to me, Rogue."

Get her calm.

Her eyes stayed on his face as if he were a lifeline.

"I—I'm not—"

"Just listen to me, okay. It's all right, kid. It'll be all right." Her breathing was slowing; she was relaxing. He eased off her arms a hair as she settled back into the ground.

"Where are we?"

"Med lab."

"Wh-what happened?" her voice was tight—strained.

Still not Rogue. He could almost smell a difference, as impossible as that sounded. It was still her, but there was something else, something he couldn't put a finger on.

But who the hell was this Ms. Marvel character?

No time to ask. She thought he knew her, and he wasn't about to tell her otherwise. She already reeked of near-panic. Sweat dripped down her face.

"Listen—" Not 'Listen, kid.' The Marvel-chick had been a full-grown woman. "What do you remember?"

She nodded, closing her eyes briefly. "Yeah, yeah. I—" Her brow furrowed, and when her eyes opened she wasn't seeing him. "Oh, God. No—ah didn't—I . . . Logan, ah . . . somethin's wrong . . . ."

She was getting upset again. Damn, of course she was, but he couldn't let her. He put his hand on her shoulder—both to ground her to something outside whatever was going on inside her head and to keep her from taking off the ground again, if he could.

"Okay, okay. Stay calm. We're gonna figure this out, al'righ'?"

"Fine. Get off me." She pushed him off her, moving his weight with ease. She stood, putting a hand to her head and grabbing the bed to steady herself. "God. Keep your day job, Wolverine. You're about as reassuring as the Hulk." She paused, her voice softening to a whisper. "What the hell's wrong with me?"

Logan straightened. His muscles were tensed for a fight, but he didn't know what to do. He couldn't fight this—couldn't fight without hurting Rogue, and it wouldn't do a thing to help.

"The mutants!" she looked at him, her stare suddenly sharp. "Why did you—" She jerked to a stop, her eyes whipping around to where Beast lay. She turned vaguely green, a hand flying to her mouth.

"Oh God," she swore. "Hank."

He caught her arm before her knees gave out. "Kid?"

She looked at him, her eyes wide. "She's not letting go, Logan. It's never been like this—never . . . ." She gritted her teeth. Her grip turned painful on Logan's arm. She shut her eyes, her eyes twitching behind the lids.

After a long moment her grip relaxed, and she let out a long breath.

She opened horrified eyes to look at him.

"She's inside me, fightin' to get out. Ah don't—I don't . . . ." She looked around the room, her eyes confused. "Where's Tony?"

_BAMF!_

Logan didn't glance back at Kurt as he teleported into the lab.

"Mein gott," Nightcrawler said, staring at Hank.

"Elf," Logan said, not even sparing a glance away from Rogue, who had sat on the edge of the cot and was bent over, her head in her hands like it was fit to explode. "The door's locked."

"Of course, that does not stop me, mein freunde."

"I thought it would at least make a point," Logan said. "I guess I was wrong."

Nightcrawler took a step forward. "Kitty told me what happened. Is . . . is he going to be all right?"

"Beast?" Logan glanced at him. "Dunno. Guess we'll see."

"Rogue?"

Logan glanced at her. The kid didn't seem to hear them—her eyes still shut, hunched over on the table as she fought some internal struggle.

"We'll talk outside," Logan said.

* * *

_Got Rogue some drugs to knock her out. I'm glad it worked—with the Marvel chick's invulnerability or whatever the hell, I wasn't sure it would. Hope she'll sleep until I get some of this mess figured out._

_Told the elf the whole thing 'n sent him out to talk to the kids. He's been tryin' to keep 'em calm for the last couple hours. Don't think Kitty said anythin', but it ain't like the kids can't watch the news, and the fact that Ororo and Rogue're both AWOL from classes ain't something that can be easily overlooked._

_Kids'll be worried. Took months after Stryker's attack to get the kids to stop jumpin' at every shadow. This ain't gonna help._

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine was hunting.

He'd been on the trail—smelled them miles off. Didn't matter how far. Didn't matter since when, or from where.

He couldn't have said, even if he was in the mind to care.

_Man_.

He moved almost silently, blending in shadow after shadow even as he ran, leaping over trees and tearing through foliage unhindered with a slash of his claws.

Smelled guns.

Prey.

Head was reeling—vision spotted, ears roaring. Weak. Tired. Blood on his hands made him hungry. Didn't matter.

Didn't know how many there were. Didn't care. One or one million—their scent turned his blood to fire.

_Kill_.

He was close. Scent like spikes up his nose, spikes in his ears, in his skin—cutting him. He'd sneak around, cut them off. Keep them from bolting, running, escaping . . . .

No more.

They were murmuring—talking. Voices, with words too far away from his mind to understand.

Close now.

Slowly. Silent. Stalk, blending into the shadows.

_Head spinning, senses reeling. Black and white spots dancing across his vision, breath choking him._

Fury.

He bristled as he saw the man—dressed in furs, carrying a pack on his back. He held a long gun in his hand.

"—hurt . . . bad. Hit . . . head fallin', can't even—"

Wolverine froze stand-still, his blood turning from fire to ice in a second, and tempering to steel. He blinked, recognition returning to his eyes.

Man. Gun.

_Kid._

They'd got the kid. Standing next to the man with the gun, sweating . . . rubbing his throat gingerly, stinking of fear.

Wolverine didn't hesitate.

He lunged. Wolverine hit the kid, bowling him over and knocking him to the ground. Gambit shouted, but Wolverine was already moving. The man had raised his gun, but Wolverine shredded the end and grabbed the butt of it, ripping it from the man's grip and striking him down as a scream shattered the air.

"_James!"_

Wolverine drove his claws downwards, and a shot gun rang through the air.

It was close-range, and the shot hit him right in the forehead like a four-ton boulder, blinding him with blood and the impact. He could almost feel his brain slosh in his skull.

The man scrambled away, missing his claws by inches as Wolverine whipped around towards the one who'd shot him, his snarls lost in the screaming and the kid's shouting as he lunged again—  
The man grabbed his shoulder and slammed his fist into his jaw.

Wolverine's head snapped back, but the man cried out, grabbing his hand.

_BAM! BAM!_

Two more shots slammed into his torso, throwing off his balance. He staggered, falling to the ground.

_No!_

Not enough. Had to keep standing, had to keep fighting. He'd fought through worse—but he was weak from before. No time to heal up, no time to recover. Red filling his vision, but not rage this time. Blood, draining away from him. Draining to white with his vision as he looked up—looking at his attacker at the first time as his vision reeled.

A light-haired, pale, and terrified yet determined looking woman, holding a smoking gun up to her shoulder.

_BAM!_

Wolverine's eyes rolled up into his skull and he slumped to the ground.

He went still, his face half-blown away and the three shotgun hits to his chest gaping blood and gleaming metal ribs. Gambit scrambled towards him, gripping his shoulder and shaking him.

"Wolverine! Mon dieu, Wolvie! Wolvie!"

Wolverine's head lolled unresponsively.

The man stood up behind Gambit, and the woman stepped forward, shaking, but refusing to lower the gun.

She needn't have worried. Wolverine would be fighting no longer.

TBC . . .


	31. Transitions

Okay. Here it is. Sorry for the long wait, people. Finals and family coming into town is killer on asociality i.e. writing.

The good news is that I should have the next chapter done in only a couple days. Think . . . Wednesday. We'll make it an early Christmas present. :)

I hope you enjoy.

* * *

Chapter 31: Transitions

* * *

_Now:_

Logan stepped out of the elevator and stood in the empty hall. A death pall had fallen over the school—the same silence that had fallen after Scott had disappeared, and after the professor and Jean'd died.

Beast would live. It'd take time, but he'd heal. Storm wasn't dead—she _couldn't _be—but he would have to leave to find her, and he couldn't leave now.

And Rogue? Damn, she worried him the most.

This wasn't his goal—he didn't know anything about running a school.

_BAMF!_

Logan didn't even miss a step as Kurt appeared, hanging from the light fixture, then dropped down at his side.

"They're in the game room," Nightcrawler said. "Everyone is there."

"Good," Logan said, striding forward. He didn't notice that with every other step he left a bloodied boot mark on the carpet. Those wounds had already healed, for the most part, and were already forgotten.

He pushed the door open into the game room and stood there, staring down at all the wide-eyed students gathered around. They were crammed on every surface, many sitting close for comfort. Pixie, a pink-haired, glossamer-winged mutant, was even hovering in the corner of the room, her wings giving off a faint buzzing sound.

All of them watching, waiting. The room stank of worry, fear, tension. Eyes reflected back worry, but worse than that . . . trust.

God. When'd they get to be so many? Had so many joined since the professor'd died?

Kylee jumped off Kitty's lap and ran over to grab his leg, clinging to him. "Where's Stormy?" she asked.

Logan put a hand on her head, matching gazes as the room fell silent, watching him. "Dunno, darlin'."

"What about Dr. McCoy?" Bobby called out.

That seemed to open the floodgates—questions drowned out any chance of picking one out from another—let alone bother to answer them. The noise pressed on him, the heat of the room making his own drying blood beneath his scorched and torn uniform grow sticky once again with sweat. The stink of fear and tears made the air catch in his throat as the kids pressed forward, demanding answers.

God, he didn't want to be here. He never asked for this.

Logan sighed. He ignored the shouts, his hand going for a cigar from his pocket, but finding nothing. Dammit. He let his arms fall to his side, waiting without a word until the kids finally got the hint and shut up. The fact that his hair was half-plastered to his head with blood and filth and his shirt had been all but burned right off probably helped it happen a little faster than usual.

Silence. Finally.

"Okay, listen up," Logan said, his voice conversational level, but in the absolute silence of the room his voice was clear. "'Crawler told you what happened, now I'm gonna tell you what's gonna happen."

"You ain't getting' sent home. With what's goin' down out there right now that'd be the worst thing we could do. So we're gonna sit tight, stay calm, and keep doin' what we're doin'—classes, exercises, missions, the whole mess."

There was a stir. People whispering questions, wondering, but not brave enough to speak out.

"What about teachers?"

"We're looking for temporary teachers, but we'll have them covered. You be where you're supposed to be when you're supposed to, and we'll go from there."

"What about Ms. Monroe?" Pixie asked softly.

Logan clenched his fists, and the front row of kids sitting on the floor in front of him leaned back, eyeing him nervously. "We're working on that," he said.

He caught Kitty's eye. Her hair was still damp from the rain, and her face splattered with mud. She swallowed, giving a brave attempt at a smile.

Good girl.

Logan nodded to the room, reaching down and picking up Kylee and handing her back to Kitty before turning from the room.

He had work to do.

* * *

_Rrrring. Rrrrrrrrrri—_

"Papa Pizza's Delivery Service."

Damn, Logan really wanted to kill something. He'd gone back to the MedLab both to escape the worried kids and to check on Beast and Rogue again. Nothing had changed, but it wasn't like he was the type to expect miracles.

He wasn't feeling the most patient at the moment.

"Get me Fury."

"Uh . . . ." Same stupid clown.

"_Now, _kid."

"Yeah—one second."

Logan pulled out a cigar out of a leather jacket that he'd donned after changing. It was bloodstained—couldn't remember from what—and a bit charred, but he didn't care. Better than his other one. He put it in his mouth and was about to light up when he glanced back over at Hank the sleeping Rogue and changed his mind.

"This is Agent Carter."

"Get me Fury."

"Wolverine." The way the lady said it was dry, almost amused—yet ungiving as Fury's. "Of course you'd be making trouble as soon as you come back onto the map."

"Listen, lady—"

"It's Agent Carter, Wolverine, and you aren't going to get anything by bullying me. There's a reason Fury told me to take your call."

"All right, Carter. I wanna talk to the Scarlet Witch."

"Not happening. The Scarlet Witch is a member of the Avengers, and her safety is SHIELD's concern."

"Bitch ain't cooperatin', 's that it?"

"You put her brother in the hospital and very well could have killed him. Wanda Maximoff is not the most forgiving of people, even on a good day."

"The kid broke a couple ribs. Get over it," Logan snapped.

"We're working with her."

"Screw you," Logan said.

"We also have all our agents and carriers on alert for your mutant friend."

"Storm."

"_Storm._" Her scorn was evident. "The point, Wolverine, is that she's alive. The Scarlet Witch did not lie about that. This is our area, and we'll call you when we find something."

Logan grunted.

"You're in deep enough shit right now as it is. If I had my way, Fury'd let you get what's coming. Keep low until this blows over."

"Yeah, whatever."

He hung up.

Like he would sit around doing nothing and let them do all the work. He only had their word that they were looking, or that she was alive at all. And Logan trusted SHIELD as far as he could throw a helicarrier.

But he could stay low. Low enough that they wouldn't see him coming until it was too late.

* * *

_Then:_

It was weird waking up again.

He woke up slowly, which was strange in and of itself. Couldn't ever remember waking up slowly. It was always fast—hot, quickened with fear panic, or startled awake by some sound.

He felt funny. Warm, for one—almost too warm, but not feverish. Ground was too soft, air too dry.

He twitched his arms, but he was too heavy, too tired. Couldn't seem to move.

His head shook slightly, his eyes pressing shut as he gave a soft groan.

He tried to roll over onto his side—but something got in his way. Something holding him down . . . on his wrists . . . .

_NO!_

His eyes shot open and he jerked upwards—or tried. Ropes were bound around his arms, around his chest, holding him down, stifling him.

"Wolvie! Calm down, mon ami!"

It was the kid, scrambling out of a sleeping bag on the floor.

Wolverine struggled against the ropes, but they were too tight to slip from.

_SNIKT!_

Gambit jumped at the sound, throwing up his hands. "Now, Wolvie—put da claws away. 'S'al'righ', petit—"

Wolverine twisted his wrist. It took some squirming, but his right claw caught an edge. He sliced through the ropes as if they weren't there, bolting upright and crouching on the bed, looking around the room wildly.

People. People. _People_. The stink was everywhere—on the floor, in the musty air—on _him._ God, they'd brought him here; they'd _touched_ him. _Where was he?_

"—were havin' dose bad dreams a'yours. Even cut youself, n' almost Mac. Not like dey'd hold ya down if ya woke up anyway. So put dem claws away, homme—"

_Kid! The kid had done it—_given_ him to them . . . .!_

The door cracked open.

"Remy?"

Wolverine was across the room in half a second, grabbing the door and catching the wrist of the woman on the other side. She gave a choked scream as she was whipped unexpectedly into the room and thrown to the ground.

"No!"

"Wolverine!" Gambit bolted towards him, grabbing his arm to hold him back. Wolverine snarled, whipping his elbow back and into the kid's face. The lady screamed as the kid flew back, blood pouring from his nose as he slammed into a dresser. He slumped face-first onto the floor, limp.

Wolverine hadn't looked away from the one on the floor. The one that'd shot him—he remembered. He'd been weak. Still was. The world was blurred and unfocused around him, but they hadn't drugged him enough. He was going to kill them all, get away again. They'd never have him again, never catch him.

She was gasping, dragging herself backwards on the floor, her eyes wide—she stank of terror.

But over that . . . she reeked of chemicals. Cleanliness so sharp that it burned his nose, burned his eyes. Could almost feel it eating into him, eating into his brain. Like medicine and pain.

She smelled like his blood.

"Wolverine? M-my name is Heather. Please—I only want to help—" Her back ran into the wall and her voice jolted—she had nowhere else to back up to. "You—you came out of the woods and frightened us. We aren't the ones that are after you. Remy told us everything—"

Wolverine took a step forward. His claws gleamed before him, his fists trembling.

He wanted out. He wanted silence—no, it was too quiet in here, too close. The walls were closing in around him, the stink made him want to choke. He was gasping for air; he couldn't breathe—couldn't _breathe!_

"C-can't you understand what I'm saying? I'm not going to hurt you—oh God."

She cut off, staring up at him. He'd come close, and her eyes were fixed on his claws, the trickles of blood down his fists that had dripped down before his healing factor had healed the cuts.

She spoke again—her voice soft, trembling. "Is that—is that what they did to you?"

Wolverine paused, following her gaze. In the presence of the cabin's room—made homey by the rug and the homemade quilt over the bed—the long blades looked almost absurd. Sharp cold against the warmth, reflecting days of snow and frost and black nights frozen to break. Too clean—too inhuman for humanity.

The silence was close, complete—

"I'm sorry," the woman whispered, not moving.

Wolverine glanced down at her. He had pulled back without realizing—straightening as he stared at the metal claws sprouting from his fists. He unclenched his fingers, flesh by metal, his lungs rising into his throat.

Not withdrawing them, he lowered his hands, turning his attention back to the woman—that's what she was, a woman. He'd never seen one so close, never smelled one so close.

Unarmed. He'd have smelled the gun oil.

"We—James and I brought you back here. I fixed you up all I could—James went for help, but we're so far out, and the weather—"

That explained the fading scent of his blood on her. Beneath that and the disinfectant was the scent of the soap she used, the scent of lavender, and then just her.

The rising stink of fresh blood caught his attention and he glanced back to the kid, then blinked.

The kid lay on the floor, unmoving. Blood dripped from his forehead into his hairline.

_SNAKT._

He withdrew his claws, moving to the kid's side and carefully reaching for his pulse. The lady made to move, but Wolverine turned sharply at the sound and growled at her, making her go still. As he turned his attention back to Gambit he settled back against the wall, watching him and holding her wrist where he'd grabbed her.

Kid's heartbeat was steady. A quick check showed he was breathing well, and his eyes weren't dilated—no concussion. Wolverine's elbow had hit him full in the forehead above his right eye—leaving a quickly-appearing goose-egg that was oozing blood. The nose shot had been more glancing—it wasn't broken, and the blood would be easy to clean up. He'd be all right, besides a nasty bruise and a good headache.

Damn it.

He could feel the lady's eyes on him the whole while—following him as he checked the kid before helping him lie more comfortably on the floor.

He'd be fine. Wake up in forty-five minutes, maybe less.

Damn. Wish he hadn't hit him quite so hard—wasn't thinking clearly. Kid needed to be able to run—run away from here.

They had to go. Had to get out of here. It was getting hard to breathe again. The place stank to hell.

"I—I have ice and water I can fetch. It'd keep the swelling down," the lady spoke from against the wall. Wolverine glanced back at her. The sharp stink of fear over her was fading—and over it, determination. She didn't move, her eyes didn't move from his—a challenge.

It was almost funny.

Wolverine didn't look away either. Lady could be going to get reinforcements—call someone. Could be getting a weapon.

But she didn't smell like she was lying.

Wolverine nodded slowly. She nodded back, licking her lips as she rose slowly—each motion careful, watching his reaction. He didn't move, not taking his eyes off her as she backed out of the room—her hand reaching blindly for the doorknob—and disappeared into the hall.

TBC . . . .


	32. Confrontations

Chapter 32: Confrontations

* * *

_Then:_

Heather's hands were shaking as she grabbed clean rags and put a large bowl in the sink to fill with warm water. But her expression was set, and she didn't hesitate to grab the now-filled bowl and head right back into the room.

She stepped in and immediately shivered; the room had gone cold. Her eyes went to the dented dresser, and then rose to find Remy on the bed, the top quilt pulled roughly over him.

Wolverine had pulled back the curtains and now stood next to the opened window, untouched by the cold despite the fact that all he wore were some of James' pajama pants, which dragged a good six inches on the floor. Freezing rain was pelting the sill and reflecting thin moisture into the room. It beaded on the hair on Wolverine's bare chest as he watched her, his shoulders slightly hunched in the shadowed corner of the room—the wildness in his eyes replaced by wariness as he watched her closely.

Heather shivered with the cold, her breath visible as she moved forward. Steam snaked up from the bowl of water.

She stepped to the bed slowly, each step accompanied with a glance to the man in the corner to see if he'd moved. She reached the bed and put the bowl down on the desk beside it. She reached towards the boy, glancing again towards Wolverine. The pattering of the rain roared beside the silence of the room.

He didn't move.

She let out a long breath, turning her attention to Remy.

"Ouch," she said, tilting Gambit's chin and grimacing at the blood. She took a cloth, carefully wiping away the blood as she opened his eye to check for concussion. She wrung out the cloth and continued cleaning the cut. "You . . . you need to be more careful. He was just trying to help," Heather said, her words gaining confidence as she spoke. "We both are. I didn't mean to hurt you, you know." She glanced up at Wolverine. Dark eyes stared back, wild and unwavering. "I—I _am_ sorry for that. But Remy explained everything." Her eyes flitted to him again, and then back down. "He admires you a lot, whoever you are. He said you saved his life."

The blood was already stopping. Either it wasn't as bad as it had looked, or maybe this boy had some of the same thing going on as Wolverine. Heather reached for her medical bag that she'd left by the bed earlier, pulling out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. "James and I . . . we've known each other since college. We came out here to take a break—crazy, I know. It's still winter up here in the mountains, but we just had to get away from people—" She opened the bottle, disinfecting a needle as she leaned towards the boy.

A grip like iron caught her wrist.

She jumped, automatically flinching away, but her arm didn't even waver in the man's grip.

God, she hadn't even heard him move—hadn't seen the dark movement until it was too late. She, James and the boy had had to carry him here, and it had been more than a small struggle. It didn't seem possible that someone so heavy could move without a sound.

She looked up at him. His eyes were narrow, and after a moment he shook his head. The motion was a bit halted—unnatural, like the body language was as unfamiliar as a foreign language.

His grip was painful on her wrist. His hand was almost uncannily warm, wet as it was from freezing rain. The drops were still cold.

"It's all right," Heather said. "I'm a nurse." His expression didn't change—unreadable as stone. "Stitches will help him heal better, and avoid infection. Otherwise he might scar."

Wolverine shook his head again.

"Okay," Heather said slowly. "All right." She lowered her hand, and he let go of her as she set the needle on the dresser.

Instead, she picked up a cotton pad and tape and bandaged the wound.

"You—you seem to understand well enough. You _do_ speak English, don't you?"

Wolverine reached over her, taking hold of the hydrogen peroxide. He sniffed it, then recoiled sharply, dropping the bottle. It clattered to the floor, spilling down his front and onto the floor as he staggered back, clapping a hand over his nose with a choked gag.

"Oh, God," Heather sighed, pushing aside her bag. "Okay. Listen, it's all right, okay?" She stood, catching his arm as he took a blind step backwards, his eyes streaming.

Wolverine snarled, knocking her hand away sharply and reeling back to put distance between them again. He turned his back on her, wheezing slightly, wiping his eyes.

"All right. No touching, then. I should have figured that out already, huh? Guess I got luckier than Remy."

Wolverine turned, wiping his eyes as he glanced back at her. His eyes lingered on the bed, and for the first time something almost readable passed across his expression.

"He'll be all right," she said, going to the drawers and opening one. The front was cracked from Remy's weight. She pulled out a pair of boxers, a towel, and a t-shirt. "Here," she said, holding them out towards him. He took a wary step back, and she rolled her eyes. "Come on. I told you I wasn't going to hurt you—not like I could if I wanted. From what Remy said it was just because you were already weak that those bullets hurt you as bad as they did. _Here_." She pushed them into his hands and he took hold of them reflexively. "Now the bathroom is through that door. You hand me out the pants and I'll put them in the wash. James didn't bring many clothes up with him, and I don't think his jeans would fit you."

Wolverine had looked down at the pants, but was now watching her almost quizzically—his head tilted, his brow furrowed slightly.

"What?" Heather asked. He didn't answer, and she bit her lip. "Hey, Remy said you could understand and talk just fine—just that you didn't like to much. I . . . " She trailed off, looking down. "God, I can't believe I'm saying this. Getting shot in the head wouldn't, you know—oh, God. Listen, you can understand me, can't you?"

A pause. He nodded.

"Good. Good. Okay. Feel free to use James' razor. I'll go start dinner. If you're half as hungry as Remy I'll need enough to feed an army. Get your . . . healing working right again."

She pointed him to the bathroom and left the room. Wolverine didn't move at first, watching after her until he could hear her moving around in another room. He hesitated, then bent over, sniffing the clothes in his hands before straightening. He glanced at the kid, then slowly turned and went into the washroom.

* * *

Wolverine stared.

And stared.

The mirror stared back.

It wasn't like a reflection in the water. That had been blurred, rippled, like from a dream. But if it weren't for the fact that the man in the mirror had no scent, he would have thought that someone else was standing there looking back at him.

He lifted a hand, touching his face.

He didn't know himself.

And that wasn't right, was it? He could recognize the kid, even recognize the lady by sight already.

But he was a stranger to himself. A dangerous one, by the sight of him—smudged with dirt and blood, his hair wild and thick with filth. When he'd turned around from closing the bathroom door he'd almost popped his claws and snarled at the reflection before he'd caught himself—hair wild, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlight, though they immediately narrowed and his lips curled in a snarl at the stranger in the mirror.

He didn't like the look of him.

He used the toilet and turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature. He was in the shower, his face towards the spray as months of sweat and dirt and blood washed away, before he even realized what he'd done. He paused, blinking through the stream of water down at the knob. He reached down, taking hold of it. It felt odd—hard, but not wood, not metal—_plastic. _He twisted it slowly.

The water turned icy-cold, so quickly that he jumped, and twisted the knob the other way.

He ended up playing with the knob until the hot water was gone.

He tried twisting it to hot again, but it was no good; the water had gone cold—almost as cold as the river. After a mental shrug he turned to washing, though after a sniff of the bottle on the floor he let that be, instead using the bar of soap. It still smelled, but didn't cling to him like a cloud.

He finally turned off the water and stepped out, shaking himself before remembering and grabbing the towel from the counter.

He toweled himself dry, then stopped, sniffing the clothes. They smelled funny. He could smell the lady on them, and someone else—a male—and then something scented—soap. Clean. He pulled on the clothes—only having to try twice to figure out the arm holes from the head hole. The boxers and shirt were too small—or maybe they were supposed to fit like that. Still, the loose pants had felt more comfortable.

He padded from the bathroom, head low as he breathed deep. He paused, then moved over to the kid, sitting down warily as the bed creaked underneath him. The ropes he'd cut through pooled around his feet.

The bed was soft. The air was warm and quiet. It was weird. He was twitchy—uneasy in this unfamiliar setting, but in a way he felt almost comfortable, like he could lie down and sleep for days without bothering to move. That only made him more uneasy.

Noise from outside the room drew his head up. He pulled his hand away from the kid's forehead and padded, his nostrils flaring, and he swallowed the saliva that had flowed into his mouth at the scent.

What was that smell?

He glanced at the door, then to the window. The lady'd closed it again, but water droplets sat beaded on the windowsill. His eyes went to the kid.

He should take the kid now and go. He was feeling better—he'd drunk his fill from the faucet before his shower, and while his stomach still felt like a dried-out corpse, he could hunt. He could carry the kid for hours before having to stop.

It wasn't safe here.

He glanced between the door and window again, then stood slowly. He moved forward, putting a hand on the window and sliding it open an inch. Drops began bouncing onto the sill, the rain battering against his hand through the glass as webs of condensation crawled outwards from his palm.

He looked back at the room, the shadow of the coming night casting it in a comfortable shadow, cut only by the warm yellow light from the hallway.

He took a deep breath, trying to ease the growing tightness in his chest. He pulled the window closed again and turned to the door.

* * *

_Wasn't hard to find her. I guess government-supported superheroes like the Avengers don't really feel a need for discretion._

_Apparently they have a tower—yeah, a tower—right in the middle of Manhattan. Real discrete._

_I was going to track 'em down the old way: hittin' the streets. But Kitty caught me and pulled up the information on the 'net. Everythin' was listed there, from the address with a picture and the people seen comin' and goin'._

_Captain America. Ironman. Scarlet Witch, Quicksilver, Ms. Marvel. Some butler guy named Jarvis._

_Gotta count on SHIELD having some guys there—and probably a mob outside. People aren't happy with Ms. Marvel goin' down._

_Shouldn't be a problem._

* * *

_Now:_

Logan lay flat in the vent, peering between the grating.

Place had good security. Not good enough.

_Snikt._

He popped a single claw, slipping it into the edge and slicing around the sides. He slid out, coming out in a roll and standing. Immediately the hair rose on the back of his neck and he turned sharply. No one was there.

His nose twitched.

Nah, that wasn't right.

He stepped forward slowly, hands ready at his side.

And . . . there.

He took another step forward, but the scent moved back. Couldn't hear them, couldn't see them, but they were there.

Not they. _She._

He straightened. No use sneaking now. "Done playing games?" he asked, his voice low.

The Scarlet Witch stepped out of the air—no other way to describe it. Reality bending and all that—who knew if this lady had a limit? No wonder SHIELD was treating her like a bomb ready to go off.

He caught a quick scent of surprise that he had sensed her, but her face showed nothing. She lifted a cold eyebrow, keeping her distance.

Smart girl.

"They knew you were going to come. Fury swore that you would, and he is rarely wrong," the Scarlet Witch said, not moving from where she was sitting in the shadows. "They wanted to assign me with enough security to make the president feel stifled." Her eyes glinted. "I turned them down."

"Wishin' you hadn't?"

A soft snort. She stood, the folds of her robes falling around her. She'd bathed and changed since the morning. She smelled clean and starched and angry, her dark red clothes the color of blood in the shadows. "You really thought you could take me, Wolverine?"

"You're one of the good guys," Logan said, standing his ground. "They say you don't kill."

"They say you can't die. It looks like neither of us need worry about ruining our reputations." She took another slow step forward, a slant of light touching her chin. Her eyes narrowed as she looked over his face. "You don't even have a mark on you."

"What did you do to Storm?"

She folded her arms. "Fury has been trying to get to me all day. You really think you, of all people, are going to have any better luck?"

"Listen, lady. You can do this the easy way or the hard way—"

"You mean, I can just tell you or you can try to beat it out of me." She lifted a hand, and Logan suddenly couldn't move from the neck down. "Try again," she said, taking a step closer.

"You're one of the good guys," Logan gritted. "Fury must've told you what went down there; Hank McCoy was _shot_, dammit, and it ain't like you lot were listenin'—"

The Scarlet Witch's eyes flashed, and she took one last step forward, staring down at him. "I know what happened," she said, each word sharp. "The Teeps at SHIELD say that Ms. Marvel's gone—that you've sucked her personality right out of her, with something they've never come across. So I'll tell you this: you make Ms. Marvel right, and I'll tell you where to find your bitch."

Logan growled. "We don't even know went down out there, let alone how to make it right—"

"You send out weapons you can't control?"

Logan bristled. "It was a _kid_," he snapped. "_You're_ a mutant. You didn't just wake up one day knowin' what the hell was goin' on."

"You sent her to fight."

"She was flyin' the plane. Can't blame her for comin' to help, considerin'. She didn't know what would happen."

"Stupid."

"I ain't the one who crashed a rescue party, lady."

Wanda Maximoff glared, but she stepped back, and Wolverine found he could move again. He shifted his weight slightly, but didn't move forward.

"Go," she said. "But you will not find your friend until you fix this."

"Damn you," Logan said.

"And Wolverine? You touch my brother again, and I _will_ kill you."

"'s long as he doesn't give me a reason to, I won't," Logan said. "You might have found me this time, sister, but you can't keep your guard up all the time."

Wanda's expression was cool. "You are a stupid little man," she said. "Threatening me like that. I could rip that metal right from your bones—"

"Nah. You ain't got the guts."

She hissed softly, her eyes narrowing, studying him. "The world wouldn't even miss you," she murmured.

Wolverine just looked at her, unmoved. She looked away first.

"Go."

Logan growled softly, clenching his fists. "You think I'm gonna leave so easy? Listen, lady—" He took a step forward.

Something hit him hard enough to turn his vision white. He had nothing to brace against as he was launched across the room and bulleted right through the window. Glass rained down around him as he began to fall.

Senses reeling and half-conscious, Logan's claws shot out as he began to freefall.

_Ah, great._

TBC . . .

~Please remember to review~

:)


	33. Falling

Please remember to review. This revising business is awful, so any encouragement is greatly appreciated. :)

* * *

Chapter 33: Falling

* * *

_Now:_

Logan hung there in the air, arcing outwards from the building for an eternal millisecond, the sunlight glinting off his claws and the shattered glass floating around him.

The moment passed, and he dropped like a rock.

He twisted wildly in the air, spinning around to watch the ground rush up towards him.

Or was that the wrong idea? Would it better to land on his back?

Blood blinded his right eye, streaming from a healing cut on his cheek from the glass.

Probably didn't matter either way. 'Sides, he'd rather see it coming.

He pulled in his claws—this was going to be messy enough without having to deal with digging his own claws out of his guts—and bared his teeth.

_Screams from below. Hell, he hoped he didn't land on anyone. That could get messy._

This was going to hurt.

_He was going to kill her, that bitch—_

_THUD!_

Flesh and muscle bent around unbreakable bones as he hit the ground, and dirt mixed with blood, grinding against metal.

Logan saw white, and then red.

Then nothing.

Darkness.

Logan gasped, lifting his head from the dirt and rearing up. Snapped rosebush branches caught at his skin, but he popped his claws and ripped them away, staggering out onto cement. He fell to his knees, a dribble of blood leaking from his mouth.

_"Sergeant! Sergeant—"_

_Logan wiped the string of blood from his mouth, turning his head aside to spit blood into the dirt, climbing back to his feet._

_"Keep goin'," he growled, shoving the concerned soldier away. A bomb blasted into the earth just yards away, and Logan ducked, holding up an arm to shield his face. Dirt blurred his eyes, and the bullet that'd buried itself in his side worked its way out, falling in the dust behind him as three more slammed into him, turning his vision to blood—turning his blood to fire—blinding him . . . . Thunder, deafening him._

Logan gasped, blinking wildly. His face was wet—but where the blood was coming from, he couldn't tell.

He couldn't _see._

Where were the shouts? The screams? There was nothing—only dead silence. Not even his own heartbeat.

Hecouldn't_ hear_.

Deaf? Blind?

Vibrations in the cement, under his hands.

The stink. The stink of blood. He spat again, still blinking—at least he could. Both eyes were there, but burning, stinging. Mashed in his eye sockets, the nerves screwed to hell, or something. Healing, but slowly.

He spat again, trying to smell beyond the blood. Cigarette smoke. Men—men, leaving. Running. Terror. Exhaust.

Gun oil.

He jerked his head up, reeling off-balance, but keeping his hands planted on the cement to ground himself.

_Bombs. Had to get up—get to his men. Keep going . . . ._

No! Not bombs, dammit. Just a 20-story fall and a crappy landing.

_Thunder. Bombs all around him, flinging blood and bodies and mud, caking him. Gunshots whizzing through the air, and grunts of men falling—going down for good. Bullets shooting through him, taking down the soldier next to him. Just a boy. All just boys . . . ._

Something cold and metal pressed against the back of his head.

_Gun!_

_SNIKT!_

His arm shot out as his throat ripped in a snarl he couldn't hear. His claws snagged something wildly, but he couldn't tell what—couldn't see. He smelled hot copper, mixed with fear and pain like rust—he'd caught somebody. How bad, he couldn't tell.

No! Dammit—this wasn't then. This wasn't _then._

_When was he?_

Tightness, grabbing at his chest—panic setting in, making him gasp. No—just blood. Crushed airway.

_Just breathe. Slowly, slowly. Think._

Gun oil. Lots of it, now. And people, again—stinking of sweat. They smelled grim, like bodies hot under uniforms so used their scents had been sealed into every stitch of the fiber, even beneath the various soaps they'd used that morning (except for a couple who he wasn't sure _when_ they had bathed last . . . . ).

Damn.

Police? SHIELD?

He just cut off some bastard's hand?

Blood clogging throat. Rage rising—pain wanting to strike out.

_Breathe_.

Dammit!

No—not enough blood. But they were angry, now. They'd stepped back, but were waiting. Waiting for a pin to fall, though, by the smell of them.

What were they doing? Probably shouting at him to get down, put his hands in the air . . . .

Logan turned his head, spitting out a mouthful of blood and a couple shattered teeth on the cool cement next to him. The taste of copper made him gag.

He kept his head down, retracting his claws slowly. "Listen," he tried to say, gritting the words between his remaining teeth. Speaking felt like gravel on an open wound—must've smashed his throat. Hoped they could hear him—hoped they could understand. Hoped it was loud enough. He raised his voice, just in case. "I can't hear—" Stop. Pant. Breathe. "—a damn word you're saying . . . so shut it." Probably too loud, now. Could be shouting for all he knew. He stopped to spit again. Someone's scent behind him drew closer, and he turned sharply to face him, baring his teeth. "Touch me, I'll kill ya," he snarled. He didn't need eyes _or_ ears to do that. 'S long as he was breathing, he could do that.

He could almost feel the restless shuffling. Feel it like he could feel his organs crawling back together, inch by agonizing inch. He bit down on a gasp of pain, choking it off and swallowing it as he clutched a hand to his chest.

He hissed between his teeth, then inhaled, bringing in a new scent—this one familiar. Irritated. Up-tight, but with an unshakable foundation of confidence, and a thick, unmistakable scent of cigars.

Fury.

Could almost hear him. Could almost hear him shouting, over the bombs, over the roaring of the planes.

"Nick." He shook his head slightly, straining for the slightest sound. The gasp of his breath, the growl of his own voice. Nothing. "You—" Stop. Breathe. Blood like water clogging his lungs. "You sic your men on me and I'll—I'll take 'em down."

Yeah. That was convincing.

"You think I can't?" He had to stop again, panting for breath. "Try me, bub."

Pause.

_Heal_, dammit.

What were they doing now? Laughing? Could be. Smells were mixing—it hurt his head as he tried to keep them separated, but he wasn't about to pass out on them. He did, there was no way of knowing where he might wake up.

"This isn't . . . . what it looks like. Jus—just gimme a minute, will ya?"

He spat again, rubbing his eyes and feeling glad he had lids enough to do so, even if his whole face was still slick with blood and he could feel the puffed flesh receding. His lungs were peeling away from where they'd wrapped around his ribs, his liver was crawling back into place after crashing and scrambling with his diaphragm.

_POP._

"—know it's you?" a woman's voice asked.

Engines, voices, honks sounding angrily above it all—the never-ending murmur of the noise of New York City.

It came down like a wave, and Logan flinched, immediately toning it down. He'd been listening so hard, having it come all back at once was like running into a wall.

"Scent," Fury's voice replied. "Seen him track a platoon three days ahead of him, through mud and rain. Stumped me how he did it, that first time."

"Damn." Logan felt his nose cracking as it crawled back into place on his face. The lady made a soft sound of disgust. "Well, that's disturbing."

"Give him a minute and he'll be back on his feet."

A noncommittal noise from the lady. "We're not taking him out now _why?_"

"Logan's brash, but he's not half as stupid as he looks. And to be honest, I'm not sure what we'd to with him if we did detain him."

"Chuck him in a cell?"

"That wouldn't solve the problem."

"Shock me," she said dryly.

Fury didn't reply, but he shifted suddenly.

_BAM!_

Logan jerked sideways, his ears ringing as a shot clipped his cheek. "Dammit!" he snarled, or at least tried. His throat cut on blood halfway through and he choked, sputtering as he leaned forward, spitting onto the sidewalk. The cement beneath him tilted, and he threw out a hand, catching himself. He lifted his head, looking blindly towards Fury's voice and scent. "Wha t'hell s'at fer?" Yep, hardly understandable. But it was enough.

"I was going to ask you the same thing."

Logan blinked, squinting to see something—anything. Fury's voice was fading forward and back like waves against the sand, and it was making him dizzy to try and hold onto it.

Damn, his head hurt. Felt like it'd been filled with cotton—or maybe his brain's turned to mush on the sides of his skull from the impact. His heart pounded in his forehead, ricocheting around like bullets.

"Di'—I din't do an'thin'," he slurred. He turned to the side, spitting out another tooth. Yeah. Real convincing. He cleared his throat, and grimaced at the feeling of a knife slicing down his neck.

_Hated being blind, on the ground. Helpless. Gotta get up, stare them down. Hide the weakness._

He let go of the ground with his hands, balancing unsteadily on his knees.

He bared his teeth, growling softly. The soldiers closest to him shifted—he could hear the rustling of their clothes, smell their wariness.

_Not enough. Up. Face-to-face. Stare them down, blind or not._

He rose slowly, keeping his hands in front of him and in sight. Like that mattered.

A short, plaid-wearing, bloodstained hairball surrounded by dozens of sweating elite SHIELD operatives. It was almost funny.

No one moved. Logan climbed his way to his feet, his hands out for balance as much as anything.

"What the _hell _are you doing here, Wolverine?"

Was always weird to hear him call him that. Came out wrong, when Fury said it.

His voice was like water, swaying back and forth. Made him sick, made the sidewalk beneath him rock beneath his feet.

_Turbulence. Logan gripped the side of the plane, his teeth clenched tight as the freezing wind cut through his uniform, curling up next to his skin like ghosts of ice. He pushed away, and he was falling, bodies falling around him—_

_Falling. He was still falling, falling with glass and bodies and blood, and he couldn't see the ground—_

_Still falling . . . ._

"You have 60 seconds to tell me why my men shouldn't shoot you to hell and lock you away for the rest of your life."

Logan flinched backwards, but immediately bristled. He braced himself, feeling the firm ground beneath his feet.

_What the hell is going on?_

He shook his head, burying it all. Deal with it later.

Guns sighted on him; he could feel them like eyes.

"You know it'd take a whole lot more than this to take me down, even now," he growled slowly. Fury wouldn't try it.

"Special ops team, Logan. You know what they deal with. Forty-five seconds."

He thought he could bully him? Screw that.

"Go t'hell."

"Forty seconds."

Logan bristled, and he swore he could smell the slightest smugness leaking into Nick Fury's scent, even through the clotting scent of his own blood and the mix of gun oil and New York filth. But he'd bet the seasoned soldier's face betrayed nothing.

Fury wouldn't do it. Too much danger, here. Trying to take him down like this would be like firing a cannon blind—he wouldn't know who he would hit.

And Logan wasn't going to let them take him.

Logan hunched his shoulders. _Let them try_.

"Twenty."

He could almost see Fury raise an eyebrow.

Wait.

The school. The kids. Storm. A fat lot of help he'd be to them if he was on the run from SHIELD, and Fury knew it.

Dammit.

"I didn't do a freakin' thing," Logan snarled, taking a sharp step forward. The guns snapped to follow him, and he cast a dark glance towards the scent of the nearest soldier. There was a spike in fear, quickly stifled. Smelled barely more than a kid. Well-trained, though.

Fury wasn't impressed. "Ten seconds."

Logan silently cursed him, but continued, holding out an arm as his balance wavered beneath him. "Went t'talk to the bitch, and she threw me out the window." Sure it sounded like bullshit, but damn him if Fury expected him to plead for him to believe him.

Fury didn't move. Logan gritted his teeth, but then immediately stopped at the shot of agony down his jaw.

Dammit. Teeth were the worst to regrow.

His flesh crawled. He could _feel_ Fury still watching him.

Or maybe that was just the scrapes of his skin growing back.

Logan spat again, but it was thick and dry—not even bloody, except for the taste. Damn, he needed a drink.

"You went to talk." Fury's voice was still deadpan, but damn him if it still didn't sound as dubious as it could.

Logan folded his arms, waiting.

Was that an edge of grey leaking through his vision, or was he imagining things?

Still waiting. Heart pounding in his ears—in his brain. Wish it'd shut up.

He didn't have time for this.

Finally, Fury barked: "Back to positions. Move out. Agent Carter, I want this place cleaned up."

"Yes, sir."

"You, Wolverine—with me."

People were moving, and Logan froze, his nose twitching and his ears tuned. Fury was already moving away, his scent mingling with others even as the soldiers moved away, careful to keep their distance from him.

Damn him.

Logan unfolded his arms, but refused to hold them out blindly as he stepped forward slowly, then again. Fury had moved downwind, and Logan furrowed his brow, focusing on his scent as he stepped forward again—and tripped down the curb.

He staggered, throwing out a hand. He fingers smacked against a car door, the metal of his bones tolling like a dull bell as he reeled back, catching himself with his other hand before he face-planted it on the asphalt.

"So you're not joking about the eyes," Fury stated, drawing closer again.

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Logan snarled, straightening.

"You were lying about the hearing."

"Fall burst my eardrums. I healed."

"Your eyes look fine."

"Doesn't mean shit." Could be brain damage, nerve damage, or something that Fury couldn't see still healing in there.

"How long, then?"

A last hitch of breath. Logan swallowed thickly. "Soon enough."

Fury was silent—still watching him. Logan heard him shift, flick a lighter, and light up a new cigar before taking a long draw from it.

Why did people think they could stare just because he couldn't glare back at them?

Logan grimaced, bringing a hand up to his jaw. He reached in his mouth, grabbing one of his front teeth and slowly twisting it. Hurt like hell, but it felt better once it was back in place. He spat out a stream of blood and rubbed his eyes. Grey was lighter—a good sign.

"I'll go lay low and get outta your hair, then."

"Not so fast, Logan."

Logan glowered. "What? You want a 'thank you'?"

A blurred shape. Light, dark. Lots of grey, and a spot of glowing embers. The end of Fury's cigar.

He was still just a big, blobby blur, but it was a start.

Fury took the cigar from his mouth, frowning.

"What you lookin' at?"

Fury put his cigar back in his mouth and started forward. "I want a drink. You're paying."

"Yer crazy," Logan said, rubbing his head and grimacing at a lance of pain from his neck to his temples. "I . . . I ain't buyin'you a drink."

"At the moment you are near the top of our red alert list. I can't just let you walk away."

"So you're chargin' fees in beer? Nice." He rubbed his eyes again, opening them again to light. Sure, it was still plenty blurry, but it was growing clearer by the second.

Fury glanced at him, not a trace of humor in his expression. Logan had never thought that he could be so glad to see his ugly mug.

"We need to talk."

Logan snorted at that, but followed, taking the hem of his plaid shirt and wiping blood from his face.

Fury just walked across the street to a small diner, and the waitress behind the counter gave them a startled look.

Fury sat down in a booth, his back to the wall, and Logan begrudgingly sat across from him, his back to the door.

"C-can I get something for you?" the waitress asked, glancing between the two of them. Her eyes lingered on Logan's face, and he wondered how much blood was still smeared there. He was starting to feel sticky as it dried.

"A beer."

"Make that two," Logan said, his voice still raspy. He coughed, tasting blood. "Nah—better make it three." The waitress left, and Logan glowered at Fury. The colonel didn't seem pressured; he looked out the window, watching the cars drive pass by as they waited.

What was he up to?

The lady came back with the beer, leaving them there and practically fleeing after one last pale-faced glance at Logan.

Logan snorted, grabbing one of the bottles and popping off the cap before tipping it back. He pooled it in his mouth, the chill and flavor sending new spikes of agony from the gaps of his missing teeth, then swallowed, washing the taste of his own blood down.

He glanced at Fury, but said nothing. If the clown wanted to talk, he was gonna have to start it.

Fortunately, he didn't have to wait long.

"She threw you out the window."

Logan bristled. "She's a reality warper. Wasn't nuthin' I could do about it."

"I believe you. But I also know that you didn't walk in through the front door, Logan."

"Wouldn't'a let me see her, if I had." Logan put his elbows on the table, rubbing his eyes.

"What happened?"

"Crazy bitch zapped away the leader of the X-Men, didn't ya hear?"

"I told you to keep low, Logan."

Logan grunted. He took another long drink, enjoying the brief buzz. Alcohol always got to him better when his healing factor was busy elsewhere. He just wished it would hurry up and get rid of the headache. He rubbed his head.

"Doesn't matter anyway. She doesn't know."

"Doesn't know what?"

"Where Storm got to."

Fury waited. Logan took another long swig, draining the last of the first beer. The world spun, and he threw out a hand, catching his balance on the seat before the buzz began to pass. An odd wave of distant giddiness swept over him.

_Drunk_. He loved the feeling—distant, cloudy, _numb_.

But the brief moment passed as his healing factor adjusted, and he dropped the beer bottle on the table, completely sober and feeling his insides crawling back together. Not a comfortable feeling, even putting the pain aside. He grabbed the second one, flicking off the top.

Fury was still waiting.

"Kid's as scared as you are, Fury; she just ain't ready to admit it. All upset about Ms. Marvel's powers gettin' sucked away, but at the same time her own powers got away from her. Not willin' to admit it, but she ain't got a clue what she did."

He tipped his head back, draining half the next bottle in one go. He'd smelled it on her—fear and uncertainty. She was hiding it behind anger—hiding it as she blamed Rogue's lack of control, when that was all that was on her own mind.

Where did that leave Storm? Damn it if he knew.

Logan wiped his mouth and glared at Fury. The hallucinations from getting dropped on his head were gone, and despite the lingering pain of healing the beer had brought the world into sharp focus.

"If I were you, I'd be worried about her. No tellin' what a kid that powerful might do given the wrong circumstances."

Fury sat back, frowning around his cigar.

"Now what about you? Thought I'd had ta take down some of your guys before you let me go."

Fury let out a large cloud of smoke. "To be frank, I'd rather have to deal with you than an untrained, frightened, confused, leaderless rabble of mutants on my hands."

"I ain't a leader."

The colonel cocked an eyebrow. "Call it what you want. I want you and your team to leave the Scarlet Witch to me."

"Like hell—"

"You leave her to me, Logan, and I'll let you keep your soul-sucking student instead of having SHIELD haul her here to find out what she did to Carol."

"Are you threatening me, Fury?"

"I'm cutting you a deal. Are you in?"

Logan took another drink. "So. Beast's outta commission, our leader's dead or gone, and you want me to be happy with a truce?"

"I don't care how you feel about it. But I don't want a mutant riot on my hands, and you're smart enough to know that you're not in a position to make more enemies right now."

_And he knew it, dammit._

Logan took another drink, distancing himself for another moment. The cars on the other side of the glass sounded miles away, but he could hear Nick Fury's heartbeat pounding steadily across the table. Logan grimaced, rubbing his forehead.

"Sarge—"

"What?"

"Colonel. Whatever. Hell, does it look like I care? Listen, Nick—" A lance shot through his brain between his eyes and he flinched despite himself. "Goddamn it—"

_Blood._

_He sprinted up the wooden stairs, grabbing a hold of the doorframe as he threw open the door to the dark room._

_No._

_Thick, cloying blood filled his senses. _Hers_._

_No. Nonononono._

_The dim light from the moon touched her feet, lighting her sprawled figure and turning the blood on the floor around her to black silver._

_NO!_

"—gan?"

_He fell down next to her, but he couldn't touch her. He couldn't bring himself to touch her—_

"Logan!"

Logan looked up sharply, panting. Colonel Fury was watching him, unreadable as ever.

_Oh God._

What the hell had that been?

He swallowed with difficulty, letting go of his shirt he'd clutched over his heart as the staggering pain faded, leaving an empty echo of pain and the scent of blood and something painfully familiar.

A flower?

"What?" Logan bit off, his voice harsh.

"What the hell was that?" Fury asked.

_Hell if I know._

The war nightmares were one thing—he could deal with that sort of horror. It was his life. Didn't like having them when he was awake, but he could deal with them.

This, though . . . .

"I just got tossed out of a 20-story window, Fury! I'm healin,' that's what I'm doin'." That's right. His lungs were still healing—he could feel the familiar burn. Probably bruised his heart, too. Major case of whiplash. He stood. "We—we done?"

"I don't want to see you around here again, Logan. Or any of your X-Men."

"Whatever." He nodded at Fury's untouched beer. "You gonna drink that?"

Fury shook his head. "I don't drink on duty." Not even a hint of a smirk. Bastard. But Logan couldn't get himself to really care.

He snagged the beer and turned, rubbing his chest absently. "You're the government guy. Put it on your tab, or whatever the hell."

The door swung shut behind him, and Nick Fury sat back, frowning as he watched him go.

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine was standing in the kitchen doorway for a good four minutes before Heather noticed he was there.

She was stirring a large pot on the stove absently, looking out the window at the rain and biting her lip. She adjusted her glasses and sighed.

She smelled worried. It made Wolverine edgy. What was she worried about? She didn't smell panicked, but something was bothering her.

Was there something out there? He hadn't smelled anything, but what if she was waiting for it—waiting, like Wolverine waited for the soldiers that hunted him. They were out there, somewhere. Hunting.

Maybe she was being hunted, too.

Wolverine hunched his shoulders slightly, his hands curling into fists.

But where was her weapon—the gun? If she was worried, why wasn't she ready to fight? And where was the other human—the male one. What was it that they had called him? A _name_.

He couldn't remember. He hadn't figured it mattered, but now it bothered him. For some reason, it was important.

A name. Something to separate him from other men, something that was his, like his scent, his appearance.

Like the lady—she had a name. Heather.

The kid had a name, too, though Wolverine tilted his head to the side, as he tried to think of it. It's not like he had a reason to remember it. He was a kid, and he smelled—sounded, looked—different enough from everything in the woods that he _was_ himself, embodied by everything that made him what he was. Next to that, why did anyone need names? Why would Wolverine care what it was?

But it was important anyway.

He frowned.

That's right. Gambit. But that wasn't even his real name, was it? Something else. Something . . . girly.

_Girly?_

That's right. There were girl names, and guy names.

_Why?_

Who knew?

He couldn't remember the kid's real name, dammit.

_He couldn't remember._

But Heather had just used it, in the room. She'd been talking about the kid, used his name.

He _should_ remember.

God, he should be able to remember.

He took a step back, bumping against the wall, and he leaned against it. His hand was shaking, and his throat tight.

_He couldn't remember._

But it was just a name. He could go ask Heather, or even the kid. It didn't matter anyway.

But for some reason, forgetting made him feel sick, and he looked out the window at the rain, searching for lights, for the chance of his hunters drawing close.

He felt like they were right behind him, right over his shoulder, and he could never turn fast enough to see them.

Surrounded by the stink of people, everywhere.

He looked down. He'd popped his claws in one hand without thinking, and now turned back to the hall, his nose flaring as he searched for danger—anything that he could fight, to stop the pressure building around him, suffocating him.

_He needed to remember._

"Oh! Hi."

Wolverine looked up sharply, his hand jerking upwards instinctively as he saw Heather watching him—looking right at him, again. Her direct gaze made the hair on the nape of his neck rise, and he hunched his shoulders, fighting a wave of dizziness as adrenaline swept through his overtaxed system.

_How long had it been since he'd eaten? Days? Too long for the damage he'd taken . . . . _

Heather looked surprised herself, and looked away. It made Wolverine relax a hair, but he didn't move. She cleared her throat, quickening her stirring of the stew for a minute. "You were in there a long time. Must feel nice. Remy said he hadn't bathed in weeks." She was watching him sideways and trying not to look like she was staring.

The grip in his chest relaxed, so quickly that Wolverine almost gasped.

That was it. He remembered now. The kid's name. Remy.

_French_, not girly.

French? The word called forward a surge of images, of colors, of lights—all a confused, muddled mess that meant nothing, but demanding to be heard. Loud, building pressure in his head, shouting.

None of it made any sense. Like a dream—a nightmare, crowding in around him, blinding him with the weight of something just out of reach.

Too heavy. Too loud. Too much. It was choking him, stifling him.

He pushed it aside—pushed it all aside. There was too much to think, so he let it all go.

So much easier to think nothing.

He shook his head slightly, withdrawing his claws with a _snakt_ that had Heather eying him again with wary but innocent curiosity.

He drew in a slow, deep breath to cover his reaction, though something inside him laughed.

Heather put down the spoon, moving away from the stove as she went over to a packed cupboard and began searching through it for the salt. "You just checked on him?" she said. He didn't answer after a moment, so she glanced back at him and just nodded. "Yeah. I did a few minutes ago too. Just sleeping now, isn't he?" She hesitated. "I gave him some painkillers. He's going to have a killer headache when he wakes up anyway."

He'd smelled that on his breath. He didn't like it, but the kid didn't seem worse off than before. If he took a turn for the worst Wolverine'd kill the lady, and that'd be that.

For some reason, though, he didn't want to.

_Just a name, Wolverine. You forgot a name and nearly hyperventilated._

He tried to ignore it, but the tightness in his lungs returned, if not so strongly as before. He rubbed his chest absently.

Hunger?

_No, you stupid bastard. You know what hunger feels like._

Heather. Remy, or Gambit. Why two names?

What about his name?

_Wolverine._

_'Wolverine—dat's an animal, you know dat? You—you a man.'_

Kid had said that. But Heather—heather was a plant.

_It was?_

Not any plant he ever remembered.

He ran into another dead end, and reared back mentally.

_Was_ heather a plant?

Yes. He remembered.

A tree? No—something else. Flowers? Maybe.

He couldn't remember.

_Not important, smartass_.

He shook his head, breathing deep again.

One thought at a time.

_Wolverine—dat's an animal._

Animal. Not a man. But he _was_ a man.

_Wolverine wasn't a man's name, then?_

Then what was his name? Did he even have one?

He shut his eyes, shaking his head. The wall behind his back supported him.

Light-headed. Needed food. Needed water.

Those were easy things. Things he could get.

He looked up, fixing his sight on the pot Heather had left as she sorted through a counter to the side.

Something cooking. He'd recognized the scent of meat, but there was something more—something much more.

His feet carried him automatically towards the pot on the stove. He sniffed at it, swallowing a groan at the smell.

He reached for the lid, only to be stopped as Heather put a hand out, warding him off. He stepped back sharply away from her reach. "No you don't." Wolverine bared his teeth and her expression faltered for a second before she drew herself up, glaring. "Listen, buddy. I'm not going to be pushed around in my own house—cabin. Whatever. I don't know who you think you are, but if you aren't going to talk then at least you're going to listen."

Wolverine actually took a step back, uncertain at her tone. She was angry, but didn't smell angry. More . . . indignant. Demanding. Alpha-female, demanding to be obeyed. He didn't like it, but uncertainty overruled.

Had he done something . . . _wrong_?

Heather nodded as he pulled back. "Good. Now go get some bowls for us from the cupboard. That one, right there. There you go. Spoons are in the drawer to the right."

Why?

_Because that was how it was supposed to be_.

It's what men did.

He was still uncertain, but willing to comply for now.

Wolverine glanced back, then padded over carefully, his bare feet silent on the cold wood floor. He could feel Heather's eyes on his back; he didn't like it. But it wasn't like the eyes of the soldiers—it didn't stir up the usual hate, the fury. Made his back itch, made him want her to shut her eyes, or look somewhere else—anywhere else.

He retrieved the bowls and spoons—though the bowls had been on a higher shelf, and he'd had to stretch to get them. He'd almost sent the whole stack of bowls onto the floor, and only quick reflexes had kept it from happening. He set them on the table, looking at Heather again, trying to ignore the pain in his gut. He licked his lips, stepping back a wary distance.

She wasn't watching him anymore, but was stirring the thick stew in the pot that he could see bubbling. His eyes drifted across the food, then on the lady.

She glanced back as she turned off the stove and smiled slightly. "Thank you."

The words made him feel a little funny. They were good.

He frowned deeply, trying to figure out how that worked.

Heather brought the soup over and dished a healthy portion into each. She sat down, and Wolverine paused a moment before grabbing a chair and mirroring her action. The chair groaned slightly under his weight.

There was nothing he wanted more than to bury his face in the bowl, but he forced himself still, still watching Heather as she closed her eyes.

"Lord, we thank thee for this food, for our safety and health," she said. Wolverine frowned at her, unmoving, uncertain. "We ask thee to watch over James, and to help Remy to wake up soon and be well. In thy Son's name, Amen."

She opened her eyes and picked up her spoon. Wolverine followed her example and picked up the spoon, holding it awkwardly in his fist before ducking his head close to the bowl and digging his spoon in eagerly to catch the first bite.

God, the taste. It was almost enough to make him pause despite his starvation—made him want to sit back and groan with pleasure. As it was, he stopped, shutting his eyes as he was almost overwhelmed by it.

God. Oh, _God_.

It made chocolate and white bread, cheap steak and beer at a bar in the middle of nowhere taste like dirt. Made fresh hot red meat taste cold and bland.

It burned his tongue, but healing took care of the pain as fast as he acknowledged it. Prepared now for the sensory overload, he dug in eagerly. His bowl was empty in seconds.

He looked up, wiping his arm across his mouth and looking up, panting. The bowl's contents had seemed a mere pittance—not even a full hare. And he couldn't remember not being starving: not since before fighting the men. How many days ago had that been? It seemed impossibly far away. Impossibly long ago.

His bones still ached from phantoms of pain. Not physical—but he could remember it. Remember getting his guts and flesh blown to hell, seeing the cold metal beneath his skin. Made him sick to think about it. Made him cold, even while the stew in his stomach still burned, trying to warm him from the inside in vain.

He stopped a shiver, glaring unseeingly at his empty bowl.

"More?" Heather asked.

He looked up sharply from his hunched position at the end of the table; he'd almost forgotten where he was. But he quickly pushed his bowl forward.

The memories didn't make him sick enough to lose his appetite, that was for sure. They'd go away—fade away, like wounds healed over. Even the memory of the pain would leave. It didn't matter, in the end.

He snarfed down the bowl of stew just as fast—though this time cautiously reaching out and trying a slice of bread with it. Thunder pealed above the house.

He bent down, licking the last of the juice from the edge of the bowl before looking up. Heather was sitting with her spoon unlifted in her bowl, watching him openly with round eyes behind her glasses. Without waiting for him to ask, she ladled his bowl full again.

He attacked this one slower, but with a grim seriousness that Heather noted with interest. She took a bite, watching him.

"You're even hungrier than Gambit. Is that . . . because of your healing?"

Wolverine glanced at her, then grabbed another piece of bread and continued eating without answering.

Four more bowls later and a loaf of bread, and he was done.

He polished off the final bowl, wiping around his last scrap of bread in the dish to get every last drop of the stew. He swallowed it and licked his lips. He wanted to say something, to say . . . .

Oh, yeah.

"Thanks," he said roughly, wiping an arm across his face.

Heather looked surprised, but recovered quickly. "You're welcome," she said with smile.

Wolverine looked down at his hands. They were clean, warm. No blood and dirt around his fingernails, ground into the lines of his palm. Two of his fingernails were half-grown stumps, and he frowned.

_Still growing back_.

He couldn't remember how he lost them exactly, though.

"Well," Heather said. "I guess there's nothing left to do but clean up and head to bed." She stood, gathering her dishes. She looked at him, holding out a hand towards his bowl. "You finished?"

Wolverine looked up at her and nodded, piling his plate, bowl, and cup and standing with them. He looked at her expectantly, waiting to continue to follow her example.

Heather smiled at the strange man, who continued to avoid looking her in the eyes. _Like a shy five-year-old._ "Well, then. Okay. We'll just wash them over here. You can dry." He copied her in putting his dishes next to the sink, and she handed him a towel. "Just stack them up there when they're dry, okay?"

Wolverine did as he was told. He was careful at first—the dishes were slick, and the touch of them strange in his hands—but after a minute he turned his attention to the woman.

She was watching him again. Had hardly stopped. She had smelled nervous whenever he'd looked at her so far, so he kept his eyes down, studying her nonetheless.

The scent of fear had faded, now replaced almost completely by intrigue and . . . amusement? Did she think something was funny?

"So, are you going to say anything?"

Wolverine glanced up at her.

"It's just weird, you know. I don't even know your name." At his expression, she backtracked. "Okay, Wolverine. But that's not a name."

_So the kid had said. So he had thought._

Wolverine looked back down.

"Remy—he wouldn't say much. He's—he's as careful as you. Almost," she said, with a soft chuckle. "He's been claiming that he's French Canadian. I think your silence works better."

Wolverine didn't react to that. She cleared her throat.

"So, what's the deal? He your son?"

Wolverine raised an eyebrow, looking at her sideways as if she'd popped a brain stitch or two.

"Okay. I'll take that as a no. Where are you from, then?"

A pause. ". . . . dunno," he murmured. He stacked the last dish and dried off his hands, dropping the dishtowel next to the sink. Heather leaned forward slightly to catch the soft mumble.

"You don't remember?" Heather asked, rinsing her hands before drying them as well.

Wolverine paused, tensing at that, but then shrugged with forced nonchalance. Lady was talking too much. What'd she want from him? His life's story?

Didn't matter. 'sides, why did she need to know?

"How did you two end up out here?" Wolverine looked at her. "I mean, both of you, together—both mutants—"

Wolverine felt the hair raise on the back of his neck. His eyes widened, and his fists clenched as he looked at her sharply. "Mutant?" he repeated sharply.

Heather frowned at his reaction. "Yes. You know—people like you and Remy. Your healing, his eyes. James works with people like you."

He waited, but she didn't volunteer anything more.

He swallowed.

It was just a word. Just a word.

But for some reason it turned his blood to ice, made his comfortably-stuffed stomach grow tight, made his claws itch in his forearms.

He turned to look at the rain pattering on the window, trying to calm the tightness building up in his chest.

What did it all mean?

TBC . . . .

~Please remember to review~

:)


	34. Going Rogue

I've had a couple people ask if the new Wolverine movie is going to affect _The Meaning of Pain_ in any way, and I'm going to say right now—no. Absolutely not. Putting aside the fact that I was completely unimpressed by _XO: WV_ from plot to character portrayal, it just wouldn't fit in with how my story is going and how I've been planning on steering it. So I'm completely ignoring it, and any similarities at this point are completely coincidental (Or it could be because we may be drawing from the same source material. Either way.).

Last of all, before posting this chapter I went on through and reposted edited versions of each earlier chapter. It was a relatively quick job, but it helped fix a number of inconsistencies, typos, and formatting issues. I also added "Now" and "Then" labels above sections to differentiate between the different time periods that I was writing for in order to hopefully make reading a bit easier. If you lot have any suggestions or notice anything else that needs fixing, I'd love to hear from you. Especially if you find that I accidentally replaced a chapter in the story with the wrong part. :)

Anyway, with that done, enjoy the next chapter.

* * *

Chapter 34: Going Rogue

* * *

_Now:_

Logan was bristling as he roared into the driveway. He got off his bike stiffly and cracked his neck, glaring at the front of the X-mansion.

He parked his motorcycle in the garage and moved towards the mansion, but then stopped on the sidewalk. He pulled out a bent and smashed cigar and lit up, breathing in deep as he moved forward again—trying to ignore the burning scent of the blood that had soaked through the cigar's wrapping.

First the beating this morning, and then a toss out a window, and the day wasn't even over yet. It was enough to leave any man dead a couple times over, and tax even his healing factor.

He rubbed his head. He couldn't remember the last time he had had a headache—but this one felt like it had moved in to stay.

Nothing sounded better right now than a day of drinking followed by a week of uninterrupted sleep. Forget things for a little bit, let the aching in his bones fade from memory.

But he had to find Storm. Sure, the Elf got along good with the kids, but Logan'd been able to keep to the background, more or less. Let Storm be the authority around here.

But now what?

He'd never missed the professor so much. Five minutes on Cerebro and they'd be on their way to pick Storm up right now.

_If she's even around to find._

Dead? Or just vanished? Blinked into the middle of nowhere at the thought of a crazy broad?

Did it matter one way or another? Semantics meant nothing. Gone for good? The end was the same—good as dead, no matter whether it was intentional or not.

He'd keep looking, but there were more immediate problems. Beast and Rogue, to name two.

Logan took hold of the doorknob and pushed into the entry hall.

"Logan!"

Think of the devil.

Logan turned, looking up to the stairs just as Rogue lifted off the second floor and flew down. She landed, catching him in a hug and lifting him right off the ground, his feet dangling inches from the ground. He grunted, almost losing his cigar in the surprise that came after the quickly-stifled panic at the restraint. "Where have you been all this time, you dog?"

_Ah, Hell._

She dropped him and held him back, looking at him with a broad smile. "After you disappeared from 'Nam I wondered if you'd finally gone underground for good, until this . . . ." She jabbed him in the shoulder, right in the X-Insignia of his newly glass-torn leather jacket (the x-insignia'd been Storm's idea, after his old one'd been shredded by that Bloodscream guy). "Who'd have thought that you'd end up as a superhero? An _X-Man_." She lifted her eyebrows, getting a good look at his appearance. No doubt he looked scuffed up good, no matter that he'd healed up pretty well at this point. He could feel the itch of a fading scar the length of his face from crashing through the window. "I see some things never change. What the hell happened to you?"

'Nam?

_Blood, dripping off leaves like black rain, soaking. Boys—just boys—silent: they'd long since stopped screaming, though he could hear one gasping his life away, his legs blasted off and chest shredded. He'd be dead in minutes . . . . life dripping away drop by drop by drop . . . ._

"Logan?"

His breath caught, and he looked up at her sharply, panting. He barely kept himself from leaping forward, grabbing her by the shoulders, and shaking her until he got everything she knew about him.

She remembered him. Remembered him from _before_.

He pulled his hand down from his forehead, frowning at her.

She spoke like she knew well, in fact—like a friend. Her eyes were bright, but she carried herself differently. Her hips more forward, her chin higher—she had a confidence that Rogue didn't usually have: a swagger . . . _experience_. Despite her light words and tone, there was something in her eyes as she looked around, looked at him. Calculating. Cautious. Logan'd bet that if he could get inside her head he'd see she'd analyzed this place top to bottom already, and him along with it.

Beyond paranoid. Like him. This lady was good—probably the only reason she was alive. Or had kept her alive.

Well, being invulnerable probably helped, too. Even better than a healing factor, he'd bet.

"Logan, what is it?" At his reaction her voice had become more cautious—wary.

He hunched his shoulders, his eyes narrow. "Rogue?"

"What?" she answered, frowning at him—analyzing him again. He didn't think he'd ever seen that expression on Rogue's face. It wasn't her expression.

Logan stepped back, giving himself some distance, still watching her warily. "Listen, you shouldn't be up."

"I don't know what happened, short-stuff, but I'm fine. A lot has changed since Lubyanka."

A shot of pain through his skull. He pushed it aside, managing not to wince. What the hell?

Short-stuff?

"Yeah, Ms. Marvel 'n all," Logan murmured, taking her arm. She didn't move at first, until she took a step forward. Logan wasn't sure if he could've gotten her to move if she hadn't allowed him to.

She rolled her eyes. "All right, it's bad, but it could be worse. It's not like you can talk, _Wolverine_." She reached out, grabbing his sideburn and giving a tug.

It wasn't painful in the slightest, but Logan pulled back with a snarl, knocking her hand down sharply. "Hands off, lady!" At least she was wearing Rogue's gloves. Still, the sharp movement had sent him into fight mode. His claws had come half into his hands before he'd been able to stop them, but at least they hadn't broken through his skin. He forced them back into his forearms, letting the dark bruises in his hands instantly heal over.

His heart was pounding, red itching into his vision as his mind screamed at him to do something—fight or flight. Demand answers, or somehow just fix her—put Rogue right.

She was a stranger—a dangerous one. Put her in her place. Watch her, be ready for anything.

_No! _This was had to . . . had to—

_The air was cold—turning his breath to frost, even inside the truck. He glanced over tensely at his passenger, frowning around his cigar._

_Rogue turned at looked at him—youthful caution out-weighted by her southern sass._

_"You know, you really should put your seatbelt on . . . ."_

_. . . . ._

_ . . ._

Logan jerked back sharply, a hand flying to his head as he staggered back, catching the wall. _ What the hell was happening?_

Inside of his skull was aching, itching, crawling—like his brain had been infested by fire ants.

Brain damage—is that it?

No time for this. No time, dammit. He had to focus—he had to _think_. This was about Rogue, not him. He'd heal—he'd deal. It didn't matter.

Rogue had actually taken flight in alarm at his reaction, hovering just out of his reach as she stared at him.

"Logan, what's—?"

He unclenched his hands, forcing himself to relax a hair, and pushing back the rising clamor crushing him in his own skull, forcing back the chaos. He breathed in tightly. "You're not Ms. Marvel. You're Rogue. A mutant. Ya came with us to get Hank McCoy and ended up absorbing Ms. Marvel—taking her powers, and a good deal of her memories." Rogue was staring at him, but she'd drifted back to the floor—a good thing. He grimaced at another bolt of pain, pressing against his right temple. "I talked ta the Scarlet Witch, she said somethin' went wrong. Hell if I know what. But you're Rogue, an' I don't care who's in there with ya—you gotta wake up and take control. You've got the experience. Now wake up!"

The last word was half-snarled, and Logan stood tensely, his shoulders hunched.

She frowned—but it was no longer at him. She'd landed and now turned in a slow circle, looking around the hallway, and Logan wondered if she'd even heard him.

Rogue shook her head. A hand went up to her face and she inhaled softly. "God, Logan," she whispered.

There she was. That was her vulnerability, her southern innocence, her confusion.

Was this what it'd been like when she'd absorbed him for the first time? Jean'd said Rogue took on some of his characteristics, but had it been _this _bad?

Had she actually thought _she _was _him?_

The thought made his stomach turn.

He knew she'd felt some of his memories, even his personality, and would give anything to take that away from her for good.

_But what else had she remembered? What else had he felt?_

The pain? The bloodwrath? The hate?

_The memories?_

He stepped forward cautiously. "You back, darlin'?"

"Ah never went anywhere," Rogue said, her voice shaking. "Ah—ah've _been_ awake. Ah _am_ awake. 's just—" She shut her eyes, rubbing them with the palms of her hands. "Ah'm Rogue. Marie. Born in," she paused, "Missouri. Ah'm one of the X-Men." She opened her eyes, looking at him. She was pale.

"So . . . you all right, then?" Stupid question. Any fool could tell that she wasn't all right, and Logan could smell her. She smelled terrified, confused—and still smelled off, though it was hard to pinpoint how.

"Ah . . . ah'm . . . no, ah'm not okay. Logan, I can't remember. 's'like . . . memories. They're all confused," she admitted. "When I try to think what I did yesterday it's like . . .'s like . . . ah remember two lives, two thoughts—all me. Not like a shadow. It's _me_—_mine_, Logan. And when I look at you, I—I remember—"

_I remember—_

She cut off, turning away sharply. "All right. Okay. Listen, I'm going out. Ah—I can't think like this . . . ." She stepped towards the door, but Logan caught her arm.

"What do you remember?" he demanded, his voice rough. Blood and screams danced just beyond the grasp of memory, shadowing his thoughts, but slipping out of reach.

He hadn't been going to ask. He _wasn't _going to. But having answers—so close, _right there_ . . . it felt like being thrown out of a 20th story window all over again, hanging there just before beginning to fall.

_Still falling . . . ._

"D-don't ask me," Rogue whispered. "Logan, ah . . . ah gotta go. My head . . . ah can't think. There's too much. Ah can't . . . ." Her voice cracked and she looked, putting a hand over her eyes. "Oh my God . . . ." she breathed, but in Ms. Marvel's accent.

"Ya know I can't let you go. Not when yer like this."

Rogue gave a choked laugh. "You might be able to stop me, Wolvie, but it'd be one hell of a fight." She looked back at him. "Ah gotta get outta here," she whispered. "Somewhere—somewhere away." She pried his fingers from her arm—and though he let her, the strength he felt in her fingers said she'd probably be able to throw him through a few walls if he had refused to let her go.

Rogue smiled, though it was tense and didn't reach her eyes—again, not her expression. It was eerie. "I'm grown up now, Logan," she said softly. The smile faded, and suddenly she looked years older as her eyes traced the lines of his face. She reached forward, but stopped short of brushing his face before pulling back. "Thanks for watching out for me," she whispered.

Her eyes dropped, and she turned away. "Ah . . . ah have to go," Rogue whispered, sounding close to horrified tears.

_What was he supposed to do?_

"Rogue." She turned as he called her name, looking up at him with trusting eyes—always trusting, even when he wasn't sure who was looking back at him. He swallowed thickly. "What if ya forget? Fly off and don't remember ta come back?"

Rogue blinked at him, then reached into her jeans pocket. "Got mah phone," she said, still softly. "Call me. I'll come. I—Carol—Ms. Marvel'd come too."

"Rogue—"

"I'm not a child, Logan," she said coolly, then stopped herself, her eyes dropping. "Ah'll be back."

She stepped away from him.

And there was no way he could stop her.  
Her scent burned his nose—familiar mixed with unfamiliar—trust with mistrust—friend with stranger. He didn't like it.

Was she even vulnerable to adamantium? If she went crazy, had to be put down, could she even be stopped?

_No._

_Stop thinking_.

She was still watching him, her eyes wide, her lips pressed together—terrified, yet determined.

There was no fighting this. This was something that she had to figure out on her own.

More than anything, he could understand that.

Logan nodded. "Guess you can take a car—" he said grudgingly. But Rogue had already opened the door, and with a last glance back at him, had taken right into the sky and vanished. "—or not." He stepped out, looking up into the sky in search of her. He saw a small figure blur to the south—might have been Rogue. Mighta also been a bird, a fly, or nothing at all.

Just like that, she was gone, leaving him feeling like he'd been sucker-punched.

He leaned back against the doorframe, aching down to his bones and feeling as old as he ever could remember feeling.

* * *

_Least Beast's doin' better. He woke up just before lunch time, I walked in on him hooking himself up to an IV, calling a friend named Dr. Reyes or somethin' ta come give him a more permanent cast for his leg. Apparently she's a mutant doctor who's come around a few times to patch people up. Beast tried asking me where I learned how ta fix him up. Didn't have an answer for him._

_Don't have an answer for anyone._

* * *

Logan spent the afternoon locked in his room. The kids had a day off, and he could hear them moving around downstairs. Their voices were softer—the laughter quickly stifled in the heavy air. Questioning. Logan didn't have any answers.

He made his calls. It'd been years since he'd cut his official ties, but he still had friends with connections, and people with eyes and ears beyond the media or maybe even Fury. Nothing.

He tossed the phone away, done trying for now.

Finally, he sat in relative silence, listening to the ghostly echoes of the distant children as he stared at the wall, waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

. . . .

Nothing.

His head was beginning to ache in earnest again, and his stomach was gnawing grumpily at his backbone.

With a weary sigh, he reached down pulling out his journal from where it was tucked between the mattresses and pulled the pen from between the well-wrinkled pages.

He paged to the back of the slowly-filling pages, then let it fall open. A short list, written in a hand even coarser than his usual, looked flatly back at him.

_Tank, Champagne, Cement Walls_

_Drowning_

_Alkali Lake?_

_STRYKER_

The list had been the first thing he'd actually written in this damn journal, when Xavier had first given it to him, and before he'd forgotten it after Alkali Lake. Since then, the list had grown.

_Bloodscream_, and added later, off to the side: _French?_

_France_

_Madripoor_

_Patch?_

That had been the beginning, hadn't it? Bloodscream, and suddenly the nightmares he had become almost familiar with had changed. The list continued.

_Ninjas?_

_Trenches, gas_

Seriously.

He readied the pen, then carefully added to the page.

_Ms. Marvel—'Nam, Lubyanka_

_Guerrilla warfare_

He hovered, closing his eyes—trying to remember, but his brain returned nothing but a grey fog over a river of confusion: he couldn't _think_.

Nothing but nothing.

He opened his eyes, frowning at the list, then closed the journal carefully and stuffed it back in its place, not even close to satisfied. He rubbed his eyes, standing up and heading for the door and dinner.

Kylee was pouting at the end of the kitchen counter when Logan came in to the dining room. He hadn't eaten a bite all day, and what with the healing he'd had to do, he felt hungry enough to eat a horse.

He slumped down heavily next to Kylee, loading his plate up with spaghetti and smothering it with sauce before glancing over at her dully. She'd hardly looked up, and was stirring together her peas and spaghetti morosely. No usual grin, tackle, or even a hint of a smile.

He glanced over her with a raised eyebrow, but she didn't look at him, and just gave a soft sniff into her plate.

Logan grunted softly and took a big bite of spaghetti.

He was too tired, too busy, too whatever to care. Why should he care? He rubbed his eyes again—the vision was still a bit blurry. He hoped it wouldn't take too long until he got back to speed.

He dug into his food. First things first.

He was only interrupted when he heard an audible stir around the kitchen, and a whiff of a familiar scent. He looked up, swallowing a mouthful of half-chewed food.

Rogue walked into the kitchen. A hair of tension left Logan's shoulders at the sight of her safe and present. She looked better—clear-eyed. She'd showered, and had done her hair and make-up, and walked in on dangerously-high high heels. Though she still wore a long-sleeved, dark-green shirt and gloves, they were form-fitting and left little to the imagination, compared to her usual conservative covering.

Her appearance was enough to pull him out of his head, and he watched her walk over.

Well, damn. When had the pale-faced, big-eyed, frightened kid on the side of the road become a woman?

Kitty followed in on her heels, looking distinctly uneasy. Kitty stopped at the door, turning to talk to Jubilee in quiet agitation.

Oh, yeah. Rogue roomed with Kitty. Wondered what was going on over there.

Whatever it was, Rogue had already dismissed it—Kitty being one of her best friends or not.

She saw him and smiled. It was a bit shaky, but it was there. "Hey, Logan."

He looked up, meeting her eyes squarely. "Hey."

She smelled wrong—tight, unmoving. Rogue might not be a teenager anymore, but she was still Rogue. Kid was passionate, and never smelled like this. Usually was a mix of impatience, excitement, frustration . . . but now, nothing. Like a bottle with the lid screwed on too tight.

Logan shifted, feeling uncomfortably on edge. Felt like he was sitting across from a stranger, and a dangerous one at that.

The Scarlet Witch'd said Ms. Marvel's _soul_ was missing—if you believed in such a thing. Had Rogue stolen that? Was it _inside _of her? How much of the person in front of him was Rogue, and how much was someone else entirely?

More importantly, how long was this going to last? All the staff that had been around after Rogue had absorbed him were gone or dead (what a pleasant thought _that_ was), and Beast and 'Crawler wouldn't be any help. They hadn't been around then.

He might have to talk to the Popsicle. They were an item still, weren't they?

Rogue reached over, carefully taking some spaghetti and piece of toast from the center plate. She buttered the bread carefully with just a hint of butter, then began to eat.

Logan watched her. She usually pasted the butter on quite liberally, and the way she was eating now compared to how she usual did was almost absurdly cultured. He'd never seen someone turn their fork like that to cut her noodles, and she did it as if she'd been eating that way her whole life.

She took a few bites, and then looked at him, a spike of irritation slipping into scent. She put down her fork and looked at him, her eyes narrowed.

"Quit it," Rogue said.

"What?"

"Watching me like I'm about to go crazy."

Logan grunted. "You ain't yourself. It shows."

She looked away from him. "Ah know," she said softly, picking up her fork again. She spoke quietly—her voice buried beneath the murmur of the room, but it was still just loud enough for Logan to hear, but no one else around them. Somehow, she knew exactly how loud she had to speak—softer than she usually spoke to him. "It's never been like this, Logan."

"Yeah?"

"Ah told you . . . every time ah touch someone, they're in mah head. It's not like a voice, though . . . it's like . . . ah know them. Like, ah _am_ them. For a split second, ah'm thinkin' like they're thinkin'—_feelin'_ what they're feelin'. But right after it all starts to fade—more like a memory, and after a while even that goes away."

The ache that had faded with the first bite of food had returned, and Logan had to clamp down on the temptation to take off right then—go get a beer or four until he could think straight. Until he could figure himself out first.

But Rogue needed him now, dammit.

He swallowed a wave of rage rising from nowhere—gritting it down, grinding it into powder and storing it for later. Taking a deep breath, he took a drink, formulating a proper response. "Not this time?" Short, but good enough.

Rogue rubbed her forehead. "No. I woke up in the med lab and didn't know who I was, Logan. I was Carol, wondering how in the world I had ended up in a young girl's body."

"Carol?" Nick'd mentioned a Carol, but Logan hadn't bothered pressing him about it.

He wondered if she realized how much her accent was switching. How differently her sentence structure came out. Eastern high-class mixed with southern belle. Experience with youth.

"Carol Danvers," Rogue said, her voice still soft, though growing thick. "Ah good as killed her, didn't ah, Logan? Ah stole her life away, memories an' all. She's here . . . just . . . right here."

Logan didn't have anything comforting to say to that, so he stayed silent, feeling like his stomach was still healing up inside of him. Maybe it was.

Rogue stopped, putting her face in her hands.

"God," she breathed. "I don't know what to do, Logan. She's so . . . angry. _Lost,_" she whispered, with a tremor in her voice. "She wants out, 'n the only thing keepin' us _both _from freakin' out is . . . ." She stopped, falling silent her elbows on the table and her face hidden. There was a lengthy moment, and she let out a long breath, lowering her hands and opening her eyes. She stared unseeingly at her plate.

"Where did you go?" Logan asked, his own voice soft.

Rogue lifted her fork, moving her vegetables around on her plate uselessly.

"Missouri," she said. "I just flew by—wanted to see my mamma. But—well, ah guess they'd moved. Nobody was home, had a 'For Sale' sign up 'n everythin'."

She'd flown to Missouri and back, and still returned in time for dinner. Well, hell.

Logan took a deep breath. "We can find out where they went—"

"Doesn't matter," Rogue shrugged away. "This is my home now anyway."

Silence.

"Ah also went to see Carol," she admitted softly.

Logan looked up sharply. "What?" No doubt Fury or the Avengers or whoever the hell had her under enough security to make the President green with envy, especially after he'd come around.

"I had to. It's—that's _me_ lying there, Logan. It was . . . it was so strange, to see my own face—unconscious. I'm not—_Carol_ is not in there. Somehow—I took all of her. We're _both_ in here both of us, but both _me_. An' . . . An' ah don't think she likes me very much," she said, trying to smile and failing miserably. Her hand was shaking, and she put her fork down carefully, picking up her napkin and bringing it to her lips. "Ah don't know what t'do. Jus' . . . wait it out? Maybe this will go away, like it always has. But . . . if . . . ." she trailed off, not able to put to words the horrible possibility.

_What if it's permanent?_

Two people in one body?

Rogue, and a stranger.

But damn it, Carol Danvers had _known_ him. That's what she'd done, just before Rogue had touched her—she'd called his name. She'd been surprised to see him, but she'd known him. Even through the haze from getting his face smacked clean into the asphalt, he remembered seeing the shock on her face as she recognized him.

And the way she'd greeted him in the entryway. _Carol_ had, with all that nonsense about 'short-stuff' and the KGB. Didn't like the sound of that. Black Ops, maybe. Anywhere between World War II and the 80's. But Ms. Marvel hadn't looked that old.

Hell, _he_ wasn't that old, was he?

_Why not? Dreams and flashes of war and the trenches. There'd been a weapon's truce on gas by World War II—and he could remember the gas. Remember seeing Bloodscream between the trenches. World War I, maybe earlier, unless he was finally just going crazy. Couldn't trust anything anymore._

World War I . . . .

A gloved hand slipped over his, and he jerked back without thinking. He glowered at Rogue, but she looked unapologetic.

"You're brooding."

"'m thinking."

"You look like you swallowed the kitchen knives, short-stuff, and one got caught in your throat," she said, half-teasing as she tried to smile again.

Logan frowned at her.

Her expression faltered. "I guess I'm kinda freakin' you out, aren't ah?"

Logan grunted. "Not the words I woulda used."

She looked away again. "Ah don't know how to act. It's just . . . When I saw you this mornin', it was . . . I was so happy. Like I hadn't seen you for years. I . . . Carol didn't really think you'd died, ah guess, but thought maybe somebody'd gotten to you somehow. And she was right." Her expression turned stony. "You think Nick had something to do with—"

"Nah," Logan said, putting a hand up and surprising himself in the action. Never thought he'd be _defending_ Nick Fury. "Probably knows plenty now, but I can't see him . . . ." What? Slicing him up? Torturing him? Locking him in a cage and turning him into an animal?

Wasn't like he knew Fury that well. He sure knew he didn't trust him. But he just didn't strike him as the type. Manipulating bastard, sure—but not that.

There was a long silence, and Logan felt sharply self-conscious as he felt Rogue's eyes picking him apart.

She smelled of emotion at last, but beyond the fear and tenuous grip on control—she smelled angry: like she was ready to punch down a door. And having felt what damage Ms. Marvel could do first hand, he didn't doubt her abilities to do it. Worse, she smelled . . . what? _Protective?_ Of _him?_

"How do you remember him, then, if they erased all your memories?" she said slowly, her eyes focused outward, and clearer because of it.

So he _had_ known Fury before. Just as he thought. Logan swallowed the rumble of a growl rising his throat, consciously opening his fingers from the fists they had unconsciously made.

"Don't think I wanna talk about that right now, darlin'." Just because she seemed to know him didn't mean he could trust her. After all, Bloodscream the Psycho Vampire-Guy had claimed to know him too.

Rogue seemed to understand his suspicion and sat back, glaring at her plate before taking a very Rogue-sized bite of her spaghetti. No delicacy there.

Time to turn the tables. "So this Ms. Marvel, Danvers, or whatever the hell—she knew me."

"You practically trained her," Rogue said. She smiled, and though it was slightly tremulous still, it was more sure than it had been before as she looked at him. "You worked for the secret service—CIA, Secret Ops. You and Mike risked your lives to break me out of the Lubyanka prison in Moscow. Went against orders, too."

"Sounds like me, all right." Damn. Did she even realize that she'd started talking in first person?

She leaned forward suddenly. "Logan, ah can help you, now. Ah know you. Ah might not know everything, but you were a legend back in the field."

"Okay, okay. Slow down," Logan said.

His appetite was gone. He pushed his plate aside, leaning forward, his eyes narrowed. "How am I supposed ta trust you?" he demanded, spitting the question out.

Rogue's eyes widened. "Logan, it's me."

"Yeah, but it's someone else in there, too. Ms. Marvel—Carol, or whatever. Works with Nick Fury, could be just as bad as him."

"What do you mean?"

"Dunno—tryin' ta get me back t'working for SHIELD, or somethin'. I'm done, you hear? I've had enough of t'government, _any_ government, group, secret service-all of it."

"You suspicious bastard," Rogue said, exasperatedly yet almost affectionately. "You haven't changed a bit, have you?" He didn't answer, and she took another bite, looking at him thoughtfully. "Of course, you being locked up with all these kids to take care of has nothing to do with not taking off."

"I ain't locked up anywhere. _Rogue_ knows that." He was cut off as Kylee tugged on his sleeve. He looked down, and she pointed at a pitcher of juice without looking at him. Okay, kid was still pouting about whatever. Mad at him? Wonder what he did this time. Whatever it was, she'd get over it. He grabbed the pitcher and poured her glass full, ignoring Rogue's small smile as she watched the silent exchange.

"But with Storm gone you ain't gonna slip off and leave us high and dry."

"What about you?"

"Ah'm still Rogue, Logan. Ah'm not goin' anywhere." Her expression flickered for a moment, and then she glowered, looking stubbornly Rogue indeed, before she softened. "It's the best place for me to be right now."

_BAMF!_

Logan was out of his seat in a fraction of the time as usual; being on edge cut his reaction time in half. He caught Nightcrawler by the throat, slamming him against the cupboard, and drawing up his free hand.

"_Not _in the kitchen," he snarled.

Kurt blinked, surprised at actually getting caught. "All right, all right, Logan," he consented breathlessly. Wolverine let him go, and he rubbed his throat a bit ruefully. "You are beginning to sound like Storm."

Logan ignored that. Couldn't think about that right now. "Any news?"

"Nein. Just figuring out classes. Kitty agreed to teach math until Henry gets back on his feet," Nightcrawler spoke, his tail still twitching a bit nervously. "I can take on physics until then, and history. You can cover English?"

Logan ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, whatever. What're they reading right now?"

"_Crime and Punishment,_ if I recall."

Oh, hell. "I'll take history. You can take English."

Nightcrawler's eyebrows lifted. "You've read it?" he queried, having read him correctly.

"Well, Kylee over there says mosta these kids think I'm illiterate," Logan said, dodging the question. He nodded towards Kylee, who had slid from her spot and was walking dispiritedly out of the room with her glass of juice. As if she heard her name (maybe she did), she turned with one last sullen glance before slipping out the door. Seriously, what was up with the kid? She was too young for mood swings. Well, whatever it was, she'd get over it. "I c'n cover history. Easier to fudge."

How had Kurt convinced him to teach, even for a day? Oh, yeah. There wasn't anyone else. Even trying to call Alex Summers and Lorna Dane had come up empty—no one had answered. Logan'd have been more than willing to leave the school in their hands and go off to try and Storm himself.

They'd try again. Maybe they were just busy—what did Storm say they were up to?—digging. Archeology. Why the hell a Magnita Jr. and Summers II would be interested in archeology, of all things, he didn't know.

Hopefully by Monday they'll be back here, and Logan'd be free to get to work.

He turned away from Kurt, looking for Rogue, but the kid'd flown the coop—maybe literally. Logan swore under his breath.

Maybe he didn't trust her, but that didn't mean he didn't want to hear what she had to say. And what if they had blown this out of proportion? What if this was all just going to fade away? Was he missing his only chance to find answers?

Husk and Cannonball—two corn-grown siblings from Kentucky or someplace—ran past, and Logan stepped back to avoid being collided into, feeling a little disgruntled at that.

He headed out of the kitchen, his stomach still turning, but his appetite gone.

* * *

_It's a well-known thing, I think, that I ain't what you'd call a people person._

_Too much drama. Too much worryin' about what to say, how to say it, and how ta act. I go my own way—mind my own business—and that's that. I figure there's too much time and effort wastin' on that kinda stuff—just move on._

_I never wanted to be any kinda leader. Never asked for it, never looked for it. Figure anybody who would actually fight to be a leader just goes to show how stupid they are. Too much to worry about. Too many other people to worry about. I got enough problems of my own ta want t'chuck a bunch of others' messes on the plate._

_Sometimes I feel like there's not enough room in my head. Can't get away. And that's without anyone else t'worry about._

_But here I am._

_But this won't work for long. I gotta get out of here—never liked staying in one place, 'specially when I had to. Gotta find Storm, or somebody. Leadership ain't for me._

_But Fury's right about one thing—these kids aren't ready to go out on their own. Some of the younger ones wanna head out and do some head-bashing for answers—some kid called Hellion's head 'a that group. Lee was in it, too. Had to growl at them to stop them talkin' nonsense, though. Kids just don't see the big picture._

_Storm wouldn't want Charlie's dream burnin' t'ashes under a banner with her name on it._

* * *

TBC . . . .


	35. Nothing to Fear

Well, I was planning on updating sooner at the end of August, but you know how summer life goes. And then school life. Meh. Excuses. Life's always dishing them out by the truck full.

But for a more legit excuse for future absences: I just dove into student teaching this last month. I've made a goal to post at least one chapter per month, but I just wanted you to know that if I disappear for weeks on end it just means I am being overwhelmed with RL—but haven't forgotten this. I'm planning on sticking to at least a chapter a month until the end of this semester. /knocks on wood/

It doesn't help that this chapter just isn't singing to me like they usual do. So I figure I'll kick it out the door and move on to a better one, whether it's as good as I want it to be or not.

Before I let you go to read this, though, I have to extend a special thanks to all of you. The reviews are what really keep the muses for this story fed and running, and so you dedicated readers who have been with me from the beginning-thank you. Special thanks also to those newcomers (it seems there have been a lot these last couple months!). Some of you are reviewing almost every chapter, and I have to tell you it makes my day to pop into my inbox and see a bunch of notifications of reviews. :D

Wish me luck, and enjoy the chapter.

As always, reviews are very, very welcome.

* * *

Chapter 35: Nothing to Fear

* * *

_Then:_

Heather heard him from her bedroom across the hall.

It started with a soft thump—like cloth-muffled metal thudding onto the floor. She opened her eyes, immediately awake and aware how vulnerable she was in the darkness.

What had James been thinking, leaving her all alone in the middle of nowhere?

Of course, he hadn't known that the wild man would wake up while he was gone, let alone be walking around.

She'd shot him in the _head_, for crying out loud. _Twice_.

And besides looking a bit off-balance and pale, he'd been just fine only hours afterward. Well, more or less. The man acted like little more than an animal.

Heather pulled the covers up to her chin, eyeing the shadow of the closed bedroom door. She'd locked it, but she'd seen Wolverine's claws. The door might as well not be there.

_Wolverine_.

He was hairy, wild. The look in his eyes when she'd first walked into the room and found him awake—there was no rationality there, only madness.

_Like when he almost killed James._

She hadn't hesitated—hadn't stopped to think. She'd raised the gun and blasted him right in the head.

She never would have thought she could do such a thing.

She shivered, feeling the bruises on her arm from where he'd grabbed her, teeth bared with hatred in his eyes.

A killer.

But no.

There had been something else. Something behind the madness. Something behind the rage.

_Fear._

A wild animal. Dangerous, certainly. But what was the saying? _He's more afraid of you than you are of him._

She breathed out a breath that was almost a laugh.

But later . . . she'd come in to find him checking on the boy. Remy. He'd looked human then, if only for a second.

He'd looked suspicious, wary-but it was something even more than that.

He'd looked tired.

_Thud_.

There it was again, audible even over the rain; she hadn't imagined it the first time.

She sat up slowly, hugging the blankets around her against the chill.

Later—after he'd bathed and dressed—he hadn't looked half so frightening. His hair still damp—still wild despite the water weighing it down. His head bowed, his shoulders hunched, like a wary wolf. Avoiding her eyes at times, only to glance up, catch them, and hold them as if he were trying to stare her down. Challenging.

Confident as a man could be, but at the same time, confused. Lost.

Despite her own wariness, Heather was intrigued.

The man had a metal skull—strong enough to not even be dented by a shotgun at almost point-blank range. That wasn't normal, not even for the strange things she was beginning to become familiar with, with what her husband dealt with.

_Head trauma_, Remy had tried explaining away Wolverine's manner and amnesia when he first ran into them. But if bullets hardly phased him, what could have done that to him?

She climbed out of bed, slipping into her slipper and pulling her robe from where she'd draped it over the chair by the bed. She pulled it on, shivering at the cold as she tied it at the waist and unlocked the door.

The hall was dark and empty. The heavy rain's dull roar was muffled from here—the dark patter on the windows distanced in the still of the cabin.

She could hear the sounds clearly now: the restless noises from the bedroom across the hall. She stepped forward as quietly as she could. The door was cracked open, and she put a palm against the chilled wood and pushed it open softly.

Wolverine was lying on the floor. It looked like he had fallen asleep on top of the sleeping bag, but it had been twisted and all but discarded, and now he was curled on the carpet. She could see sweat gleaming on his skin from the dim light from the window, and his breathing was rough and heavy.

As she listened, a soft, choked gasp—like a breathless scream—strangled the air above him. It was a horrible sound—enough to make her own breath catch.

_A nightmare_.

Not just any nightmare, though. Not just the kind that left a man shifting restlessly, or a dog twitching in its sleep. She flinched as a choked snarl caught in his throat—the sound more chilling than the cold of the air.

She took a step forward to wake him, but then froze.

What if he didn't recognize her? He'd attacked Remy when he first woke up here, and Remy was comfortable enough about the man that they must've known each other for some time.

She swallowed, wetting her mouth, and turned on the light as she called his name.

"Wolverine?"

_SNIKT!_

Wolverine's breathing cut off in a gasping cry—half-snarl and half-aborted-scream—and he jolted up sharply, his feet immediately beneath him in a crouch. He looked around wildly, his hair defying gravity as he squinted in the sudden brightness, his claws bared in front of him.

"Wolverine, you . . . you're safe."

He stared at her. She watched as recognition re-entered his eyes, and he sagged back onto the floor, panting softly, his hair and face damp with sweat. His claws retracted slowly.

"Just a nightmare," she said, trying to keep her voice soft and calm despite the goose bumps on her arms beneath her robe. She was proud that only a small quaver entered her voice. "Are you—are you all right?"

He didn't meet her eyes, but raised a hand to his forehead as if to rub away some pain. His hand was shaking.

Heather took a step forward and he immediately tensed, his eyes shooting up and his teeth baring in a warning growl. She stopped, putting her hands up placatingly, retreating again. "Okay, okay. It's all right. It's just a dream." She lowered her voice further with a glance at Remy's sleeping form. The boy hadn't stirred—not surprising. Over the last day she'd realized he was a sound sleeper, if anything.

He looked away again, rubbing his eyes. Heather glanced at him, then moved to the side towards the window, looking out into the night.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle for now and a heavy white mist lay thick upon the ground, the cold of the night turning the moisture to frost.

_James . . . . _

Wolverine shifted behind her, and she glanced back as he climbed to his feet slowly and moved against the wall away from her.

"Dammit," he mumbled, still not meeting her gaze as he wiped his face again.

Heather was startled by the soft words, and she turned to look at him. "It's all right," she said, beginning to realize that there were few things further from the truth. She paused, as Wolverine scratched at a spot of spilled stew on his borrowed t-shirt intently. "What—what was it about?"

He looked up crookedly, his brow furrowed. "Eh?"

"Your nightmare. It . . . ." She looked down, seeing for the first time the three long claw marks that had cut through the sleeping bag, carpet, and deep into the floor. A faint mist of blood had sprayed from when he had popped his claws. She looked back up at him; he was rubbing his knuckles with still-shaking fingers, though he stopped when he saw her watching him. He went still, looking up at her through his wild hair. "It sounded pretty bad."

He frowned, then shrugged noncommittally

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Nothing. Just another stolen glance at her from those strange eyes—so dangerous, yet somehow harmless as they stared at her: searching.

"Can I get you anything?"

He shook his head slowly.

"All right," Heather breathed after a long pause, with each of them eying the other. "I'm going back to bed, okay? If you need anything, just knock."

Wolverine tilted his head, then nodded. Heather smiled softly, then stepped back to the door. "Do you want me to leave the light on?" she asked, feeling completely ridiculous as soon as the words left her mouth.

He just gave her a strange look, still not moving from the wall.

She wasn't surprised. Whatever this man was afraid of—it wasn't the dark.

Heather paused, waiting for the man to say something—anything. He didn't.

"Okay. Good night, then."

She turned off the light and closed the door all the way shut before moving quickly to her own room, her heart pounding in the darkness as she relocked the door and burrowed back into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin against the cold.

She stayed awake a long time, staring at the dark shape of her door.

* * *

_I lay down for a few minutes, but hell if I could sleep. Sure I was tired, but surrounded as I was by everything—the _smells_—couldn't even close my eyes for a second without givin' my heartbeat a shock-start—almost as bad as the dreams. Like tryin' ta sleep in a bed of snakes. Only snake's'll only bite ya if they feel threatened. Men—ya never know._

_Waited until I couldn't hear her movin'—'til I was sure she was asleep—then went hunting. Sniffed out every corner of the cabin from top to bottom. Found the root cellar hidden under the rug, the beer stashed in the back of the closet and helped myself, then hid the bottles. Went out the front door and circled the house a few times, even scouted out the woods. Went a good mile radius around the house before I was satisfied._

_No scents of anyone recent. Just the kid, Heather, and James. Tracked Mac out a few miles before coming back. Coulda left, but something drew me back._

_I stopped on the porch. Remember the rain'd stopped—still cold, though. Looked out into the dark forest and just stopped to look 'n listen._

_I'd spent plenty'a time just lookin' at the woods. Had become familiar, if it ever had been unfamiliar in the first place. It was cold, harsh, beautifully wild—but it was familiar. I knew the rules._

_The cabin and the lady behind me were part of another world—one that turned my gut to ice and made a hunger grow in my chest._

_As much as I loved the wild, there was somethin' missin' out there. Somethin' I was beginnin' t'look for. Figure I'm still looking for it._

_Was feelin' more human that night. Finally startin' to really think, and even if I didn't realize it then, I figure some part a' the animal I was realized that Heather could help find some of the answers._

_And if not that, then at least I knew I wouldn't go hungry under her roof._

* * *

Heather walked into the kitchen in her robe and slippers to find Wolverine sitting on the floor, digging into the leftovers of the stew from the night before. He looked up when she walked in, then scrambled to his feet, a spoon still clenched in his fist as he eyed her.

Heather blinked at him through her glasses and the haze of fading sleepiness, taking in his half-soaked and muddied appearance. Mud had splashed up to the knees of his borrowed pajama pants, and his feet were filthy.

Wolverine shifted, uncomfortable with her gaze, but stared right back challengingly.

Heather was still too sleep-groggy to care. She stifled a yawn, then stepped over a muddied footprint towards the cupboard. She pulled down a cup, filled it from the sink faucet, and took a long drink before looking back at him, running a hand through her hair.

He looked up at her briefly, trying to figure how to react to her presence. " . . . Mornin'," he tried, his voice a soft murmur.

She looked back at him, slightly surprised but not showing it. "Morning," she said. "I suppose it'd be silly to ask how you slept."

Wolverine looked at her uncertainly, not sure whether he was supposed to respond. He settled with a shrug, then stepped forward, picking up the pot of stew and holding it close as he took another bite, scraping the bottom.

Heather rubbed her eyes, looking away from him. She let him stand by the wall as she put water to boil and made hot cereal for breakfast, both of them stealing glances at the other, but content to remain in silence of the morning.

Heather dished her bowl full and sat down at the table, pushing her hair from her eyes.

Wolverine was watching her steadily, the now-empty pot still balanced in his hands. Heather put down her spoon.

"You still have room for some breakfast?"

He paused—a delayed reaction that Heather was starting to realize was normal for him—and then nodded. Heather stood, retrieving another bowl and heaping it high. So the man was a bottomless pit. Why not?

"Well, then—come on over and have a seat," she said, encouraged by their interaction (such as it was). Wolverine obeyed—putting the empty stew pot on the floor and edging forward slowly. She waited until he was seated to come forward, keeping her pace slow as she approached him. She sat down, reaching over to put his bowl in front of him and pulled her arm back.

Her hand brushed his arm, and Wolverine shot back as if burned.

He reacted sharply, jerking backwards so fast his chair fell back, and he scrambled to keep from falling. He caught his balance and backed against the wall, tense, his fists clenched.

Heather had leaped to her own feet, but now froze, not moving. Her heart had leaped into her throat, and now pattered away frantically even as she clamped down—nothing was wrong. He wasn't about to pop his claws and kill her.

She hoped.

Heather swallowed. "Hey—it's okay. It's okay."

He was trembling. She was sure it wasn't voluntary, and wasn't sure the man even noticed. He'd gone pale and tense, and despite his rage the panic beneath it was palpable.

It was ridiculous to think him afraid. He wasn't—not in the normal way. She could see in his eyes that he knew he could take her apart without even trying. No—his reaction had been thoughtless, automatic, ingrained. Like a victim of abuse flinching away from a raised hand, no matter the intent.

Instinct.

She couldn't help but immediately think of his nightmare the night before—the sounds of pain, of fear.

He'd been hurt—and more than just her shooting him, or even the unimaginable fight that Remy had told them about. He'd been hurt down to the bone.

She had felt fear, wariness, and curiosity battle within her towards the man since he'd woken up. But all of those were swept away in a sudden surge of pity, so sharp that it washed through her chest, catching in her throat.

A man—mutant or not. She suspected he'd been experimented on—memories lost, humanity washed away. What abuse had he suffered? What horrors plagued his dreams?

_Tortured into mindlessness. Hunted like an animal._

The horror of it struck her momentarily silent as she stared at him, breathless.

_No wonder he had reacted so violently when he had first seen her._

She'd heard about rumors of experiments on mutants, but she'd never _imagined . . . ._

Heather wouldn't call herself naïve, but she was horrified at the thought.

Had Wolverine just been a normal person, nabbed off the street just because of a mutated genome? Had he had a job, a life, a family? How old was he, anyway? Couldn't be older than 30 . . . . but at second glance he couldn't be younger than 30, either. His eyes were too old.

But what about his healing factor? She'd seen him regrow his face in hours. Would that affect his aging as well . . . ?

Did he have children? A wife?

_How could somebody do this to another human being?_

"Stop that."

The words were sharp, but clearly spoken—less growly than anything he had said so far—and they surprised her from her pity. Wolverine was glaring at her now, his eyes more human than she'd seen them so far—narrowed with anger.

"Stop . . . what?" Heather asked hesitantly. Part of her was immediately terrified at his anger, but something told her that he wouldn't hurt her—not intentionally. She didn't know how comforting that was supposed to be.

Wolverine stared at her, anger at her fading as his brow furrowed in vague confusion—at himself? He had opened his mouth to respond, but now cut himself off with an almost animalistic growl, turning away from her.

He lowered his head, looking down at his arm where she'd touched him—uncertain what had just happened.

Heather stepped around the table, her own heart thudding as she dared move towards him. Wolverine's head shot up at her movement and he eyed her warily, trying to guess her intent.

"Do you . . . remember something?"

He blinked, his expression shifting a hair. "I . . . ." he whispered, the soft rumble of the word more seen than heard as he looked down again, the thought unfinished.

So much to say, but no words to say it with.

Heather hesitated, then took a bold step forward.

"Wolverine," Heather said. He looked up at her, his dark eyes questioning. She licked her lips and took another slow step forward as she raised her hand—watching his eyes as he tensed slightly, unconsciously. "No one is going to hurt you." She took another step forward, and another, into his personal space, reaching towards him slowly. "It's okay."

Wolverine looked up slowly, watching her hand as if it were a viper as she reached slowly towards him. He leaned back slightly, eyes wary, but his expression was unwavering. Her hand hovered over his arm, and then lightly her fingers brushed his shoulder. He flinched slightly—but didn't pull away.

"You're safe," Heather said, resting her lightly palm on his shoulder. She could feel him trembling slightly beneath her hand; his arm was tense as rock. He didn't move, didn't say anything—watching, frozen. "Listen. We're going to figure this out." His eyes met hers—and for a second he looked truly human. Heather felt like she couldn't breathe.

She swallowed. "What happened to you?" she managed. "What's your name?"

He stared, wordless. His throat worked—as if struggling with the words. His eyes turned inward—confused. "I . . . I don't remember," he whispered, his rumble of a voice a soft baritone.

Heather slowly pulled her hand back. "Why—why Wolverine, then?"

Wolverine frowned, his hand going to his chest. He froze, looking up at her sharply—his eyes narrowed, almost accusatorily.

"What?" Heather asked. "What's wrong?"

"Ulgh."

They both jumped, and Wolverine was suddenly two feet away from her, glowering at Remy as he walked into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. He stopped as he saw both of them standing there and frowned. "Everyt'ing okay in here?"

Heather nodded, curling in her fingers that had rested on Wolverine's arm. "How's your head?"

"Ugh," Remy repeated, running a hand through his hair and cringing. "I'll live, I t'ink. No t'anks t'you, Wolvie."

Wolverine didn't react to that, but inhaled deeply as he looked at him. Taking in the boy's scent? It was a strange thought for Heather, but why not? Whatever it was he smelled, the scent of the hot cereal seemed to draw the most of his attention, and with one last closed glance at Heather he went back to the chair, lifting it from where it had fallen on the floor and sitting as he took his spoon in his fist.

Remy watched him openly, grogginess disappearing as he watched Wolverine dug into the hot cereal, not bothering with milk or sugar. He still held his spoon in his whole fist as he ate, his shoulders hunched over his bowl as he focused completely on his meal.

Remy glanced at Heather, who looked up from watching the wild man and caught his eye.

"Would you like some breakfast, Remy?" Heather asked, moving forward. Wolverine glanced up as she passed behind his chair, but didn't react further.

"Oui, and t'anks," Gambit said, pulling out a chair and plopping his boyish self down. He accidentally kicked one of Wolverine's legs under the table, and Wolverine jerked his leg back, growling softly. "Ah, shut it."

Heather slid him a bowl and Remy thanked her. He lifted his spoon, glancing thoughtfully at Wolverine again before digging in.

Heather sat down with her own bowl, but then reached over and brushed against the bandage across Gambit's forehead. "Are you sure you're all right? No dizziness?"

"None, mon chere," Gambit said with a small smile. He glanced back at Wolverine. "Though . . . y'wouldn' happen ta have an aspirin o' sometin'? Got a bit o'a headache."

Heather went to fetch some, and Gambit turned to Wolverine, who was already scraping the bottom of his bowl. Remy hesitated, then cleared his throat. "Not quite like dat, Wolvie," he said softly. Wolverine looked up, looking irritated. Remy held up his spoon, showing how he held it. "Like dis, see?"

Wolverine frowned, loosened his grip on his spoon, then carefully adjusted it in his hand. Satisfied, he lifted his bowl, concentrating on catching the last of the cereal in his spoon and finishing it off.

Remy dipped his own spoon in, but then stopped again.

"'bout what I said, before—at da river," Remy said, looking at him sideways. "Gambit don' think you a coward, you know dat. I not dat stupid, you jus'—you jus' talk more when you mad, dat's all. I was jus' tryin' ta help, petit."

Wolverine didn't answer at first, but licked his spoon clean and placed it back in his bowl, frowning. "Stupid," he said at last.

"Yeah," Gambit said, running a hand through his hair. He smirked slightly. "Don' worry. Not gonna try dat again, I promise." He sobered. "You doin' okay here, mon ami?"

Wolverine looked back at him, his eyes narrowing.

"I mean, wit' Heather and all. Tell me you at leas' _talk_ t'da lady."

Wolverine lifted an irritated eyebrow and returned his attention to his food.

"Listen—I know dat I just a kid, but I read people. Heather—she's got a heart 'a gold, else I wouldn't'a told her anythin'. She c'n help you. Y'can trust her. Maybe even help you find out what happen to you out dere."

Wolverine couldn't have been making a better act of ignoring him. He'd downed his cereal, and was finishing off the last couple drops when Heather came out and put a couple small pills in front of the kid. Gambit thanked her and tossed the pills down his throat. At Wolverine's deepened frown, he explained. "Painkillers, mon ami. Takes some 'a da discomfort of dis, t'anks a lot." He pointed to the bandage on his brow.

Wolverine's confusion seemed to grow at that explanation. With a strange look at Gambit, he looked back at Heather. Reading him right, Heather took his bowl—being careful not to touch him on accident—and returned it full again.

"Okay," she said, sitting down and pushing her untouched cereal aside. She pushed her sleep-tousled hair out of her eyes and adjusted her glasses. "What do we know?"

Gambit tapped his spoon on the side of his bowl. "What d'ya mean, chere?"

"Wolverine found you about three weeks ago, and four days ago you were attacked."

"Like I say before, could be longer. Was out like a light more dan once—maybe longer, maybe less."

"Wolverine?" He looked at her, waiting. Heather clarified. "Does three weeks sound about right? Since you found Remy?" He stared blankly at her. "A week is seven days."

That didn't seem to help. After all, Wolverine hadn't even bothered counting the days.

It felt like yesterday. It felt like a lifetime ago.

". . . Dunno."

The answer was useless, but it was enough to make Remy grin and sit back.

"Okay. What about the first thing you remember? Can you tell us that?"

Wolverine glowered at Remy, seemingly annoyed by the kid's pleased expression at his response. He sat back, folding his arms. His expression was enough that Remy's grin faltered, and his gaze dropped. Wolverine seemed to relax a bit at that, but then let his own gaze fall. He didn't say anything, but glared at his hands.

_He didn't like them looking at him_, Heather realized.

Maybe they were going about this the wrong way.

She glanced at Remy, then back at Wolverine. "Don't worry about it," she said at last. "Everything's going to be okay."

He snorted softly. A laugh? She couldn't tell.

But that was what was important right now—making sure he felt safe. Making sure he stuck around, at least until James came back.

Try to help jog his memory, but above all earn his trust. He was wary—defensive to a fault. If she was going to help him he would have to be able to open up to her—to talk.

She reached over slowly. He watched her hand as it came closer, until she rested it on his arm. No trembling this time—but just tenseness. Tense as coiled steel. The man didn't have an ounce of fat on him.

He lifted his unreadable eyes to hers and she pulled back, bringing her bowl forward and digging into her breakfast—her determination set.

TBC . . . .


	36. Sometimes You Tell the Day By the Bottle

Yay! New month=new chapter.

Well, I guess technically it's still October, but I figured it's close enough.

Besides, I was a bit eager to post the next chapter. :) I'm sure you'll forgive me for being a little (tiny bit) early. Especially since I think 90% of the reviews from last chapter had some version of the words: "UPDATE FASTER!"

Speaking of reviews, I really wanted to say thank you all for your encouraging words. Student teaching has been _hard_—my teacher has very high expectations, and uses a non-traditional approach for math that requires a whole lot more prep time than I expected. And then there's the fact that I had forgotten how hard it is to wake up at 6 am every morning. Still, the middle school kids are great (and that's something I never expected to think!), so it's not all so bad. Either way, your kind words and reviews were definitely helpful in cheering me up, especially on my harder/longer days.

I also wanted to thank you guys for the general positive reviews from last chapter after I'd expressed that I was a bit less than content with it. The truth is that the parts focusing on Wolverine's past have been getting steadily more difficult, mostly because Wolverine is in such an important point of development. His world's view is changing rapidly, and despite how exciting and fun it is to work through these chapters it is _much_ more challenging to write a developing understanding of humanity and Wolvie's interactions with people than it is to write a man running around nekkid. There's a careful balance of Wolverine's awkwardness as he tries to understand the new things he's thinking and feeling and the confidence that he always has. I'm doing my best to try to find it, and the last chapter just seemed a bit . . . choppy.

Maybe I'm just spoiled. I'm used to these chapters flowing out almost effortlessly, and I had to rework the last one time after time before I thought it acceptable. Either way, it was good to hear that the hard work paid off and the chapter worked for those that reviewed. :)

Anyway, that went longer than I meant to. I could ramble on forever about my philosophies and the behind-the-scenes thought that is responsible for each chapter and the developing story, but that's not what you're here for (even if it does interest me and my selfish self).

Carry on, then.

Hope you enjoy the chapter.

* * *

Chapter 36: Sometimes You Tell the Day by the Bottle that You Drink

* * *

_Grass._

_It was thick—bent but not worn by the passing of feet. An ant crawled slowly up one of the long green blades, waving its antennae at the air lazily._

_He breathed in deep, closing his eyes and feeling . . . ._

_. . . ._

_. . . ._

_He breathed back out. The air was cool, light, pure—clean. The faintest floral scent colored its edge, mixing with the damp scent of grass._

_He breathed again; the darkness behind his lids was quiet and calm._

_Still._

_Light footsteps—barely audible, even to him—stopped on the grass before him. Still, he didn't stir until the soft words were spoken._

"_Let us fight."_

_He opened his eyes and rose to his feet easily—lighter than he could remember being, lighter than air—lifting a long blade before him. It was comfortable in his hand—fitting with a known grip like he was born to it. The man before him bowed at the waist, and Logan mirrored his action before raising his blade._

_He didn't wait for his sparring mate to move. He cut in, feinting low and swinging high. The sensei didn't even block his blade, but twisted to the side, effortlessly dodging the blow._

"_Come, Logan-san. Focus!"_

_Logan cut in again, coiled to spring, and struck. This time the sensei deflected his blade with a flitting movement, and faster than Logan could react struck across, slapping him with a stinging blow across the back._

"_Again!"_

_Logan gritted his teeth, biting off the instinctive rage that had arisen with his adrenaline._

Focus.

_He set his footing, loosening his muscles—his senses alive in the cool air._

_His blade twisted forward._

_He caught the blade, spinning and bringing it around._

WHACK!

_Another stinging blow rang against his shins and he snarled, striking out wildly. The sensei danced out of range—balanced, calm._

"_Again!"_

_There was no need for the call—Wolverine was already moving. Six strikes cracking through the air like lightning, just as swift and impossible to follow. Blows reined on his shoulders, his back, and one clipped his cheek, striking hard enough to bruise, but not to draw blood.  
The sensei was in control._

Again.

_Sweat dripped into Logan's eyes, but the sensei was moving too quickly. He fell into defensive stance, barely managing to bring up his blade fast enough to block a strike to his gut._

"_Concentrate!"_

_Again!_

"_RRRRARGH!"_

_His practice katana sang in his hand, and he struck in faster than thought. Snarling, he attacked wildly, the power of his swings knocking the sensei off balance in his fury._

_Side cut, spin. The sensei struck down, but Wolverine was aware—every centimeter of his skin aware as he drove in.  
Burning. Festering rage boiling upwards and outwards, turning his vision red._

_He struck down, shattering the sensei's katana. He lashed out, grabbing his throat and slamming him into the ground, and bringing his sword to his throat._

_He was panting, wild rage roaring through his veins._

_It took him a couple seconds to get his hand to loosen on his throat, to find the words to speak around his growling breath._

"_Yield," he growled softly._

_Cold, unmoved eyes looked back at him, fearless above the blade. He nodded, and Logan let out a breath, rising. His limbs were trembling—the world felt vibrant and wild around him, and he took a careful breath, wiping sweat from his eyes._

_The sensei rose easily, as if he had laid himself down on the ground to rest for a moment, rather than slammed down with a force strong enough to leave already-forming dark bruises around his throat. A wild blow had caught the side of his face, and a thin trickle of blood dripped down his cheek. He didn't seem to notice, but looked at Logan, his dark eyes deep and piercing._

"_What have you learned, Logan-san? To fight? To kill? To win?" He shook his head. "You came to me because you wanted to learn control. Is that what you have shown yourself here?"_

"_Sensei—" But the master raised a hand, and Logan cut off sharply, shame deep in his heart._

"_Ask yourself, Logan, who won this battle. The man, or the animal?"_

* * *

_Now:_

Logan jerked awake to find himself in the dark. The song of a lone cricket braving the chill of late fall chirped weakly across the yard, and a cold breeze drifted over his bare arms. His skin felt stretched over his metal bones—stiff with unseen dried blood. He hadn't bothered changing since that morning, and the quick rinse of his face and arms in his sink had only gotten rid of the most obvious streaks from his encounters with the Scarlet Witch.

He sat up, rubbing off the gravel that had imprinted into his cheek while he dozed, and stretched, pulling out the aches from sleeping on the stone stairs. His breath was white in the darkness.

His bones ached. Body still healing, even if he was healed by all appearances. The last memory of lingering pangs would take a couple weeks to completely go away. But that didn't matter. They wouldn't slow him down.

He rubbed his eyes—they felt dry and itchy—and felt next to his side to find the cordless phone he'd been using when exhausted sleep had taken him.

He stood, opening the back door and padding bare-foot into the kitchen. He slid the phone he'd been using to follow up on various contacts for sign of Storm onto the table and glanced at the clock on the wall (He never had gotten around to replacing his wristwatch after Bloodscream had shattered it. Good thing, too; it wouldn't have lasted past yesterday's fall.)

2:13.

He'd only been asleep for two hours, he'd guess. He hadn't really been keeping an eye on the time, after all.

_Logan-san . . . ._

He shivered, then swore softly and moved forward, pushing his hair from his face.

Ninja dreams. He'd had plenty since his run-in with Bloodscream—they were becoming almost as usual as the adamantium. But they were dark dreams—bloody, wild. He'd given up replacing his sheets, and the floor and walls bore more than one permanent scar from his claws. No sense—only blood, screams, confusion. Drowning. Waking up with nothing but bile, blood, and terror in his mind.

But what the hell was this?

No nightmare: not the normal kind. There wasn't the fear, the panic.

What was it he had felt?

The details were already fading into the night, but the feelings remained.

The rage.

_Animal._

Familiar as anything. He could still feel it, simmering in his chest, waiting.

He shook his head.

There had been something, before the rage. Something else. Something strange.

He frowned out the window into the cold, still darkness, trying to find a word that could describe it even as the last tendrils of its memory were slipping away from him.

The word came to him, catching his throat.

_Peace_, he thought.

But even as he recognized it, it was gone, leaving only emptiness and a lingering burning in his blood that made him want to kill something.

Had he imagined it in the first place?

Heh. _Peace_.

He shook his head, feeling foolish.

Ninjas? Swords? It was stupid—all of it.

Maybe that was it—just a normal dream, for once in his life. Not everything had to mean something, dammit.

He wiped sweat from his forehead and headed to the elevator and the hidden hallways below.

It was against the rules to use the Danger Room alone, but hell—what were rules for but for breaking? And he'd broken this one too many times to count.

What was it going to do to him, after all? Kill him?

Sometimes, after waking up from his dreams, there was nothing left to do but fight. And since there was nothing solid to fight in the early hours of the morning, the Danger Room had to do.

He strode down the empty halls, the constant metallic light harsh after waking up in the chill of late fall.

He sighed, rolling his shoulders as he reached for the control panel, but then stopped as he saw the red light lit beside it.

_IN USE._

What the hell?

Logan frowned at the letters. There weren't many students who could get past the security, and those who could weren't stupid enough to try the Danger Room out on their own—let alone in the middle of the night.

Nightcrawler was even less likely to pull such a thing, even after a day like yesterday, and Beast was still in the infirmary—incapacitated for the near future.

Logan pulled his hand away and turned to the control room.

The sound of battle reached his ears as he palmed open the door, and he frowned upwards at the screen.

Rogue.

Against the rules, no matter how many times Logan had done it. How the hell had she gotten past the safeguards?

He held back his initial temptation to stalk in there and smack her down for her stupidity, and instead stopped and watched. Let the Danger Room do some of the smacking for him. Sweet and fitting justice, indeed.

It was a familiar battleground—the floor already scattered with burning cars and sprawled rubble. Two sentinels moved in, surrounding Rogue as she ducked and weaved, bolting for cover as lasers zapped down around her.

She tripped, moving automatically into a roll, but the shot that nipped at her heels was too close. Logan reached for the panel, ready to end the scenario, when two missiles took aim and blasted right towards Rogue.

She pushed off the ground, darting into the air in a blur. The missiles blasted the earth behind her, sending rubble flying, and she bolted towards the nearest sentinel.

Fists extended, jaw clenched, she charged in a blur head-first right into the sentinel's gut . . . and bounced off, slamming twenty feet back onto the ground and leaving a crater in the scorched earth.

_Rogue! _Dammit, if she hurt herself . . . .

_How the hell had she turned off the safety settings?_

Logan slammed his fist into the control panel, cutting off the simulation—at least, he had meant to. A light on the console flashed red . . . and nothing happened.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

_Freakin' computer . . . ._

"Now that ain't nice!" Logan's eyes shot back to the screen as Rogue pulled herself out of the crater and blurred forward again, drawing back her arm. The second hit split the metal in the sizable dent left from her first strike, and she gripped it, tearing back the armor like it was construction paper. She ripped the arm off, throwing the whole mass at a neighboring sentinel, which raised its laser and blasted the debris . . . right back into its injured partner. She bolted in, laying three heavy blows on the sentinel's head before slamming right between its eyes feet-first. She ripped at the cables, and seconds later it stopped flailing and slumped over. Rogue lifted out easily and into the air, leaving it to fall to the ground with an earth-shaking thud as she hovered above the smoke and dust.

Rogue spun around in the air, zooming about with two loops before touching down. "End program," she ordered, and the battleground dissolved around her. She wiped sweat from her face with the sleeve of her arm.

Logan met her in the hall as she came out of the room, and she did a double take when she saw him standing there, his arms folded.

"Well, who tied your panties in a knot? I thought you went commando, old boy."

"What the hell were you thinking?" Logan demanded. He could let her have some space, but he wasn't about to let her go and kill herself either. "You tryin' ta get yourself killed?"

"Ah'm fine, Logan. Invincible, remember?" she said, her voice holding only a shadow of bitterness at the reminder.

But the shadows were falling oddly on her face. Logan took a step forward. He brushed her hair aside, careful not to touch her skin to see the thin line of blood glistening on her hairline.

"Like hell. You're bleeding." Got a nice bruise right over her eye, too.

"It's nothing. Got blindsided. Ah'm not quite used to these powers."

Logan pulled back his hand, frowning. "Not as invincible as ya thought, eh?"

Rogue shrugged. "Can hold my ground as well as you can, Logan." She grabbed a towel from one of the cabinets in the walls and wiped the blood away before chucking the towel into a cleaning basket. "Wanna get a drink with me?"

"You kiddin'?"

"I couldn't sleep. Apparently, neither could you." She paused, glancing sideways at him. "Don't give me that look. I'm 21, you know. Plenty old enough t'go on out and drink."

That she was. It surprised him, though he wasn't sure why. It seemed like just yesterday that he'd woken up in the infirmary, Jean at his side . . . .

Now she was dead. They all were: dead or missing—and somehow he was left in charge of this circus.

How was it that time flew by, and he felt like he was just standing in one place?

"You comin', or does a girl gotta go alone?" Rogue prompted.

Logan looked up at her, ubiquitous frown in place. It wasn't as good as a fight, but beer might work just as well tonight.

* * *

Rogue didn't bother changing despite the dust and scuffs on her clothes; a small tear showed skin on her shoulder, but somehow she'd managed to face the Danger Room still wearing four-inch heeled boots.

Why the hell not? It's not like she need to be able to run, flying around like that.

They stepped into the garage and Logan grabbed the keys to the mustang, but Rogue gave him a look, heading for his bike and hopping right on like she'd been born to it.

"Nice ride."

"Yeah," Logan replied, putting the keys back and grabbing a helmet. He tossed it to her, and Rogue caught it, immediately tossing it back.

"Invulnerable, remember?"

"Not invulnerable enough, kid."

"Close enough," she said, getting off the bike again. "Come on. At least this way if you run into some crazy vampire on the road, you'll have someone watching your back."

Logan pulled the bike keys from his pocket, looking at her. "Heh," he said after a while, stepping forward. He swung onto the bike, feeling it drop its usual inches from his weight, and Rogue hopped on behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Logan kicked the bike on, letting it roar before pushing forward onto the driveway. The garage closed behind them, and soon they were out the gates and roaring down the road.

Rogue ducking her head next to his. "Let her go, Logan!" she called, exhilarated at the speed.

Logan grinned, rocketing up the speed. Rogue's grip tightened slightly, but she laughed. They blurred away into the darkness.

They pulled up to Duke's, a small bar off the road that almost looked like it would have fit in up in the Canadian Rockies and Rogue hopped off, hair wind-wild, eyes bright. She pushed her hair from her face as Logan came up next to her. She looked down at him and smiled, and Logan wondered when she'd passed him up in height. Her high heels put her a good half a head above him.

They walked in, and Logan felt the itch of eyes as the bar's patrons turned to watch Rogue. He bristled, glaring down those who looked in his direction, but most didn't even glance at him as Rogue sauntered to the bar and sat down. The bartender was there in a second. "Two beers, hon," she said, her southern drawl giving her words a slightly musical lilt. "An' keep 'em coming." She glanced back at Logan. He felt suddenly very warm.

_What the hell?_ This was _Rogue_. Kid sister Rogue.

21-year-old, hot-as-hell, cocky, southern belle Rogue.

He shook his head, doing his best to mentally kick himself.

He slumped down next to her, glowering at any bastards who were still looking in their direction. After a good minute, he gave up and turned to his drink.

He guzzled half of it, and when he lowered his glass Rogue was wiping her mouth. Her glass was empty.

Well, hell.

"Not half bad," Rogue commented as the bartender poured her another. "Most places like this have piss-poor beer."

"Been here. Beer passed good enough ta come back."

"Doesn't mean anything. You always did like bad beer." She lifted her second glass, gulping it down.

"Slow down," Logan said, putting a hand on her arm. "You're going to knock yourself out at this rate."

Rogue lowered her beer, amused at his protectiveness. "Are you kidding, short-stuff? I want to get drunk. Slobbering, knock-me-over-the-head drunk." At his expression, she smirked. "Yeah, I know you're jealous. Suck it up." She nodded at his own beer, and he glared, lifting it and downing it in one long swig. He pushed it towards the bartender, and Rogue chuckled. "That's my man."

Logan caught his second beer, and Rogue lowered her second empty glass. The bartender filled it back up with a glance at both of them, but they ignored it.

"So what's up with you?" Rogue said. He could smell the alcohol on her breath. "You've been off all day."

"You haven't been around."

"Ah've been around enough, an' the whole trip to the Danger Room in the middle of the night kinda gave it all away. _Somethin's_ off."

Logan frowned at her. "Are you kiddin'? With everythin' goin' on today, and yer wondering' why I'm not my usual cheery self?"

"Storm, Beast, an' me on top of it," Rogue counted off. "But ah know you, Logan. There's somethin' else. You've been twitching—keep starin' off into space like you're hundreds 'a miles away." She stopped to drink. "So that's not so usual, but there's _somethin'_. Been itchin' at you for a while now. Not just today. Days. Weeks maybe."

Logan debated for a second, frowning at the condensation forming on his glass as he ran his thumb idly over it. But the first beer'd been enough to do something; he figured what the hell. Rogue was as good a person to talk to as anyone. He shrugged. "Been havin' dreams—flashes. They're gettin' worse. Gettin' dropped on my head off the Avenger's tower didn't help."

Rogue sobered—frowning without a hint of drunkiness in her seriousness. Kid held her beer like a pro. "Wanda has been known to be impulsive. You're lucky she didn't do worse." She frowned at him. "Stryker?" she asked, her voice lowering. She didn't remember the details of the dreams, but she had had a couple herself before Logan had faded from her mind those years ago; the memories of the pain, terror, helplessness would never leave her, even if the specifics vanished to time.

Logan shrugged. "Yeah—he still comes around."

Rogue leaned forward. "What else?"

Logan grimaced, then looked at her with a humorless grin.

"Ninjas," he said dryly.

"Like this Bloodscream creep?"

"Yeah, at first. But then there's more." He swore. "Some old guy, teachin' me ta fight with swords, d'ya believe it?"

Rogue actually chuckled. "Yeah, well—I don't know how much of it was true, but there were plenty'a rumors about you. Said you were trained samurai, or something crazy like that—could fight with any weapon ever created. I never asked, but I was never given any reason to doubt it."

Logan stilled; he'd almost forgotten Rogue wasn't her normal self—or at least he hadn't expected her to just pop out and say it like that.

"When was this?" he said, his voice low.

Rogue blinked, but quickly raised her drink to hide her confusion.

"Rogue," Logan said, his voice a near-growl as he lowered it further. "What do you know?"

His glass was tight in his grip—he had to consciously loosen his fingers, afraid that he might shatter it. Rogue looked down.

"Ah—I can't remember it clearly. These memories—they're all mixed up, you know? Like they're not connected right in my brain. Just keep popping up at random times."

"Heh," Logan said, surprising himself with the short chuckle. "Yeah. I got that, kid."

"Yeah, you would, huh?" she said, putting down her own glass. She took a deep breath, readying to speak, then deflated. "I don't know where to start."

"How 'bout the beginning—the simple version." He could pry for details later.

Rogue nodded. She took another long swig and wiped her lips before beginning grimly.

"Carol met you back in '63. You were a hard-core soldier, she fresh into the field, and you took her under your wing."

Almost fifty years ago. Danvers had looked 30 at best. Yeah, well—he was one to talk.

Well that confirmed it. Maybe he _was_ immortal.

He took a long drink, trying to wash the sick feeling in his gut.

"Did she . . . . know my name?" Logan asked, his mouth dry despite the plenty of drink.

Rogue gave him an odd look, like she wasn't sure what he was asking. "Well, yeah. Logan."

"That's not a full name."

"Guess you're right. But that's what everyone called you. Mostly, anyway. Had more identities than anyone I ever met." Logan tried to hide his disappointment at that, pushing it down. What had he expected? A name, address, and a list of surviving relatives? He should know by now that life just didn't unfold that neatly.

"We worked some capers together," Rogue continued, "but I didn't see you for a couple years again until I ran into you in 'Nam in '69. It was a mess over there from beginning to end. We worked some jobs together—wasn't anyone else out there safer to be around out in those jungles—but you split. Guess you were heading some black ops, and that's the last time ah saw you. Later I heard your whole platoon had been bombed to hell, and you'd gone MIA, but later they moved you up to deserting, and put a price on your head enough to drown a normal man."

Rogue stopped to drink, and Logan took the opportunity to drain the rest of his glass and start on another. The effects didn't last more than a few seconds, dammit.

"Where'd I go?" he asked at last.

Rogue shrugged. "I didn't bother to look. You did that all the time—disappearing, and showing up years later in Russia, Brazil, or wherever the hell somethin' caught your attention. You weren't found unless you wanted to be."

Logan let out a frustrated breath. Sometimes he wished he hadn't been quite so good.

But that wasn't right, was it? Because one of those times, _someone _had found them. Someone who screwed him over so bad that he was still trying to put the pieces together.

So what _had_ happened? Had he flown the coop? The mission gone to hell, men beneath him dead—he just decided he'd had enough and taken off?

Cowardly, that's what that was. If something like that happened to him now, he'd leave a bloodbath behind—a dozen dead for each of his fallen men.

Or had he been taken out by the bombing too? Had Stryker just swooped down and picked him up while his insides were still crawling back together?

He thought more clues would help clear up what had happened to him—help him put the pieces together. But at the same time, his last traces of hope of him having once been normal—living a normal life, sometime in his past—were quickly vanishing.

"Dammit," he breathed.

Rogue looked at him and sighed. "At least it's something, Wolvie."

"Every time I get another piece of the puzzle I realize the whole thing's bigger than I could'a thought." He thought he'd be relieved to find out more—to find out that the dreams, for once, were just that—dreams.

_Fear, pain. Hate._

_Who won? The man, or the animal?_

He swallowed roughly.

Wars, death, blood. Killing. 'Course it would be the only thing that he'd been able to do, all these years.

Stryker had been right.

He glared down at his hands, resting on the countertop. Rogue's gaze was becoming pitying, and he felt it.

He cleared his throat. "Capers, eh?" he asked, forcing relative lightness into his gruff tone. Still sounded grim as hell. "What'd we do, then?"

"What did we _not_ do?" Rogue returned wryly. "KGB, Russian Mafia . . . ."

"Sounds like fun."

"World's a fun place."

"Could'a fooled me."

Rogue smirked, and despite himself Logan's own face mirrored a ghost of the same. It felt surreal.

Tense as he was, strangely his caution had taken to the wind; he hadn't felt this comfortable around somebody in years. Rogue sounded older, cynical, sarcastic in a way that her youthful innocence hardly had allowed, even after absorbing him.

He'd never felt closer to the kid.

He looked back at her from his drink. She was watching her with those old eyes again—and she looked sad.

"You've always been a good man, Logan," she said softly, serious again.

"I doubt that, kid."

"And you always have," she said with a slight quirk of a smile, but it was sad. "That doesn't make it any less true."

"Haven't changed a bit, have I?"

Her smile shook slightly—so slight that most wouldn't have noticed it—before turning unreadable. "You're still a good man, Logan," she said.

Logan grunted softly at her not-so-subtle question dodge.

A spike of anger from Rogue's scent, quickly stifled. Yeah, lady was good.

"You know," she said, leaning forward with a mischievous smile. "There's plenty I can still tell you. Like how you used to have the Black Widow on your speed-dial. And that was back when she was still working against us."

"Black Widow?" Logan asked.

Again the unreadable expression, before she recovered, leaning back casually. "Sometime-super-villain extraordinaire-turned-good, more or less. A complicated one—I've worked with her as many times as against. Was on the Avengers team a few years ago, but took off. Probably working for SHIELD. Fury's always had an eye on her." She smiled to herself. "If you want one thing to prove how you haven't changed, Logan, it's how you still have a soft spot for girls in distress," she continued. "I only met her once back then—we were on a caper in Russia. She almost wasted me, but then ended up putting up her gun and giving you a hug instead when you showed up. Called you 'little uncle.'"

Logan grimaced, rubbing his head. "How the hell do all these people live so long?"

Rogue actually laughed. "I've been asking that myself these past years. Far as I can tell, Fury has hardly aged since World War II, Miss Marvel's powers helped me out, and you've got your mutant thing going on. Hell if I know what's up with Natasha."

They fell silent, turning to their drinks, but with less hurry as at first. Logan frowned.

"You knew I was a mutant before?" he wondered.

Rogue hesitated, putting down her glass. "Yes," she said. "But you didn't admit it. It was just kinda hard to cover up, with us running through machine gun fire. You took more bullets for me than I could count. We just never talked about it; you avoided the subject like a plague."

"Guess mutants weren't a public thing back then."

"Yeah, but with the whole bullet-spitting thing, it was a hard thing to hide," Rogue said, then hesitated again. She looked him in the eye. "You weren't scared of many things, Logan," she said. "But if I had to say you were scared of anything, it was probably that."

Logan stared at her. "Bullets?" She had to be kidding.

She shook her head. "The mutant situation," she said. "Being careful was important in our line of work, but you were—I don't know. _Paranoid._ Half the black ops I knew thought you were bigoted _against_ mutants—hated them, even." She paused. "What if Stryker—or whoever he was with—was after you even back then, and you knew it?" she wondered. "Certainly would explain some'a that paranoia."

Logan frowned into the dregs of his beer, their conversation bringing up more questions than answers to churn through his head.

But what else was new?

TBC . . . .


	37. Teacher's Pet

I'm almost done with the semester, and boy can I tell you how that makes my day just plain jolly. Big papers coming up these next couple of weeks, though (including a 50 page senior project that I should have been working on instead of writing this, but oh well), so wish me luck. ;)

As always, thanks for the reviews. You guys are the greatest! I hope my writing keeps up to your expectations and you continue to enjoy this story from this little imagination of mine.

The next chapter should come up sooner than the normal month--expect 2 weeks from today or so, since the 11th is the last day of student teaching and all this mess, so I'm planning on having a writing spree right afterward. (!!!)

Enjoy the chapter, and happy (late) Thanksgiving!

* * *

Chapter 37: Teacher's Pet

* * *

_Stayed up drinkin' until the sky was beginning to turn grey with the morning. Don't need ta tell you it was kinda weird, talking to a kid about stuff that she shouldn't have a clue about._

_She doesn't know who I was, either. Not really. Just another soldier, even if I was her friend. Had my own business, and always had my secrets._

_Says she was like a daughter ta me—trusted me with her life. But she still didn't even know who the hell I was, and I could see it in her eye: she has her secrets too. Carol did, that is._

_Was the best at what I did, then. Had enough contacts both high and low to make Fury nervous, on his way up to the top. Yeah. Turns out I knew him then, too, though Carol doesn't know the details. War buddies, or something._

_I always figured he knew more than he was sayin', damn him._

_Said it was rumored I'd fought in World War II, too. Maybe even before that. But she said she'd asked, and I never gave her a straight answer. Gave me a weird look, though, when I asked her if she used to know who the hell Bloodscream was. She'd never heard of him before._

_Well, of course Rogue had. Carol Danvers hadn't, or whatever the hell._

_Dammit, this is getting too big._

_Before, I just wanted to find out who I was before Stryker nabbed me. Now there's no telling where to start. Vietnam? The World Wars? Before?_

_Does it even matter anymore?_

* * *

_Now:_

Beast was actually sitting up when Logan went down to check on him, carefully lifting a spoon of creamed cereal from a bowl cradled on his heavily-bandaged stomach. Logan stopped stand-still as he stepped into the medlab, frowning.

The normally barren room was as close to cluttered as he had ever seen it; handwritten cards—from some hand-scrawled note from one of the younger kids to a professional-looking illustration by Peter Rasputin—sat on the medicine tray next to the bed and were carefully set up on the counter along the wall. Someone had even brought in a vase of flowers—either store-bought or gathered from Ororo's greenhouse, though he wondered if anyone dared step in there with her MIA.

But despite the fact that Logan'd made sure there was a set line of shifts to stay with Beast in case there was trouble, Hank was alone, and looking as content as a half-mummy could.

"Looks comfy," Logan said, eyeing the pillows propped around him that no doubt were making his half-sitting position possible.

Beast had seen his encompassing glance, and gave a smile crooked from both wryness and bandages strapped across the swollen right side of his face. "I'm not sure who they were intended to cheer—myself, or their bearers," he said, his voice soft and hoarse, but still somehow sounding as articulated as ever.

"Scared, are they?" Logan asked.

"An optimistic leader you are _not_, Wolverine."

Logan gave a soft snort of amusement, coming forward. "You look like crap. That doctor you called turn you down?"

"Cynthia Reyes will be here when she can. I told her not to rush herself."

Logan grunted. Figured Beast knew what he needed, after all. Wolverine wasn't going to be the one to force medical care on him, out of everyone.

"Storm?" Beast queried.

Logan shook his head. "Nothin'. SHIELD's on the lookout, and called a couple dozen guys I know who know too much for their own good. Not a sign."

Beast looked down. "If there is anyone who can take care of themselves here, it is Ororo," he murmured.

Logan had figured about the same thing, but it still didn't help him feel better. He felt crazy, with nothing to do but wait, hoping for a phone call.

He'd never been a patient man.

"Where's Sparky?" Logan asked, after taking a second to remember who was supposed to be with Beast at this time of the morning.

"Jubilee?" Hank clarified, but his answer was interrupted with a multiple coughs. He leaned forward, holding an arm over his chest, and when he sat back again he looked pale. "I . . . told her to get ready for class. I'll be fine alone until Cynthia gets here, I assure you."

"Whatever you say," Logan said, not sounding convinced. "You sure you ain't good enough to teach a history class?"

"I wish I were," Hank replied. "By your _eau de bar_, it's clear you've been busy. Drinking?"

He smelled the beer with a broken nose? Logan must've underestimate Beast's sense of smell. Either that or he must really reek of it.

Logan shrugged, fishing a cigar out of his pocket and sticking it unlit in his mouth. "Don't worry. Won't make a difference one way or another. Wish it did, though," he added.

"Of course," Beast murmured, picking up his bowl with two unsteady hands and carefully moving it onto the bedside table as he sank deeper into the pillows.

"You need anything, you give us a ring," Logan said. It wasn't like he was the mothering type in any way, shape, or form—but he didn't want Beast knocking on death's door while he was stuck in the high school version of hell. With luck, he'd call in the middle of class and give him a good excuse to slip out.

"Of course, of course," Beast murmured. Logan turned to leave, and Hank added a soft, but too-cheery considering the situation: "Good luck, Wolverine."

Logan didn't reply; he bet he was going to need it.

* * *

Logan was seated behind the teacher's desk in the classroom, leaning back in the chair with his feet up on the paper-scattered desk before him as he surveyed the class.

The window behind him was open, letting in the chill damp of a fall storm as the smoke from his cigar defused in the cold. He yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth.

Little sleep and a lot of healing to do wore even on him, 'specially with the beer on top of it slowing him down, even if it was hardly noticeable.

How the hell'd he let 'Crawler convince him to teach?

Oh, yeah—there wasn't anyone else to do it, and with nothing popping up on Cerebro's automatic alert system to call him away, he didn't even have an excuse to bow out.

So here he was. About to teach a class—a _real _class, and not just physical training.

One or two students came in early, stopping stand-still at the sight of him behind the desk before blinking and moving in. The rest came in en masse, and Logan half-suspected that somehow the news that he was teaching had gotten and they'd grouped outside before entering. Safety in numbers, he supposed. Glad they'd learned something from his defense lessons, no matter how elementary.

There was more than one dubious glance towards him as the students took their seats, and the kids who hadn't brought jackets shivered in the chill of the room.

The whispers that had braved the silence cut off as Logan stood, walked to the window to toss his cigar into the rain, and closed the window. He went back to the desk, picking up a folder and leafing through it briefly before snorting softly and dropping it back on the desk. He sat down on the edge, frowning at the class.

"Cold War," he said without raising his voice, yet his words were clearly audible in the closed atmosphere of the room. "Tell me what you know about it."

Dead silence met his question, and the number of dubious expressions were growing, along with those whose expressions had already glazed over.

He lifted a beer bottle from the desk, popping a claw to carve off the top before taking a long swig. He tossed the cap, bouncing it off the wall and into the can without looking.

"Anyone?" he asked, heavy on the sarcasm.

Pixie's pink head bobbed in the back as she bent over a piece of paper, scribbling furiously.

"What about you, Barbie Doll?"

Pixie didn't react at first, but at a hissed whisper from Husk (What was her real name again? Paige? Had some funky weird power that she could strip off her skin and become whatever other matter underneath. Strange to hear about, yeah, but stranger to see.), she looked up, her eyes humorously wide.

"Uh . . . what?"

"Cold War, kid. Storm's notes say you're wrappin' up a unit, and I wanna see what you've learned." He tapped his fingers on the desktop. "Why don't you start by tellin' us all what caused t'whole thing?"

"Okay," Pixie said, puffing out her cheeks in a breath of air as her gossamer wings twitched nervously. "Well, the Reds and . . . after World War II, Russia and the United States got in this competition thing between . . . democracy—capitalism—and communism," she said, stumbling over her words.

Logan grunted, taking a drink of his beer. "Anythin' wrong with that?" he asked, pointing his finger at her. She shrank back, a faint shiver of dust rising from her wings.

Better not agitate her too much. Kid had some hallucinogenic dust in those wings, and if she got nervous enough to let that out . . . well, that'd be the end of class.

Not a bad idea.

Still, Logan took a rare bit of pity on her and nodded to a blond, vain, plasma-blasting mutant whom he made regular practice to smack down during training sessions to try and teach her some humility. Still working on that.

"Boom Boom." He still couldn't spit that code name without cringing. Seriously, 'Boom Boom'?

She smirked, showing off perfect teeth, and Logan had to stop himself from taking a deep drink of beer to try and block out the scent of rising hormones as all the boys in the class turned and looked at her.

"How about the delivery?" she said with a smirk. Logan raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

Girl drama was worse than testosterone contests around here, and infinitely less amusing to watch.

Logan stared at her, then stood from the corner of the desk and stepped towards her. The kid's grin faltered, her eyes widening as he came over her.

He poured a couple drops of beer onto her desk. She made a face, leaning back as it began trickling down the slight slant towards her. Logan turned away, and she tore off a sheet of paper from her pink notebook and dabbed at the dribble, soaking the edge brown.

"Wrong. Anyone else wanna try?"

Silence. Logan waited.

Julio Richter raised his hand hesitantly. "She wasn't wrong, really. Just—guess she said it was Russia. It was the USSR," he finished lamely.

"Fair 'nough. Economics the only reason, then?"

Jubilee shifted from where she was practically hiding in the back corner. The motion was hardly noticeable, but Logan zoned in on her. "Got somethin' t'add, Lee?"

She looked unusually grim, chewing her gum slowly, and for a second he thought she was just going to shake her head and stay silent.

"It was, like, an arms race," she said slowly, her chin low as she looked at him. "Mutually assured destruction. It totally freaked everyone out."

Jubilee's expression was unreadable, and her scent was mixed in with two dozen other kids reeking of everything from too-strong perfume to not showering the night before (nice).

"Got it in one," Logan said, putting his beer down. "Now who gives a damn?"

Silence. Blank stares from the few still looking up, most looking down in hopes that they wouldn't get called on. Was there even a right answer?

"Who gives a damn?" Logan repeated, standing from the desk and folding his arms. "Berlin Wall fell when most'a you kids were still in diapers." No—scratch that. Dammit, how did time fly so fast? "Nah, before you bunch were even born. Why d'we even care about this sh—crap?"

A small ripple of silent chuckles at that. The restlessness was settled by a quick glare. Silence fell again.

"'Cause that's, like, totally what's happening right now."

Sparks again. By the sideways glances she received, he guessed that she wasn't usually the class brainiac and he wasn't the only one that hadn't expected her to speak up.

"Wanna explain?"

"Mutually assured destruction," Jubilee said, brushing her hair out of her eyes and tucking her bangs behind her pink ear-ringed ears. "Both sides trying to get the best . . . weapon." Her eyes flickered towards him, but then back down. Logan's eyebrow twitched the slightest bit, but he said nothing. "Nobody wanting to strike first, 'cause then they'd hit back, and then everyone would be totally wasted."

"Just like Genosha, and Magneto," Hisako, a Japanese kid, spoke up as she got it. "Ever since Magneto's got his power back and settled over in Genosha, you can see it all over the news. Everyone is freaked out."

"Yeah. Sounds like all the governments want to hit him first, take him out while they can," Beak, a thin-feathered half-bird mutant spoke up. Good kid, if ugly as hell to look at, and useless in a fight. "But they don't have a clue how many mutants he's got there, and Magneto alone makes the idea of sending sentinels and normal weapons pointless. Even if none got through, Magneto'd have his reason to go to war like he's always wanted to."

"Not to mention that most governments have their own superhero teams. They'd stop any counterattack just as fast," another kid added. "They'd just keep fighting, and it'd be enough of a mess that nobody would win."

"I don't know," Boom Boom spoke up, her snide way of talking forgotten as she looked over. "Magneto couldn't stop everything if they came at him at once."

"Yeah, but even killing Magneto—some people would just see that as supporting his whole argument. He's got enough mutants behind him to take over all of America, if he wanted."

"Love t'see him try!" Hellion spoke up, punching a clenched fist into his palm. "We'd play his game."

"Heh. You wouldn't get close enough to try, kid," Logan murmured, but was half run-over by a call across the room.

"But if they decided to bomb _all of Genosha_, what would keep them from trying to get rid of us, too? It's not like he's done anything over there."

"Not done anything? Are you crazy? He's _proved_ he's dangerous, and we've never done anything to show we're a danger. We _help_ people."

"But who's to say Magneto won't strike first? He's tried before, and that was just with a bunch of nobodies. Now he's gathering an army, and that's what everyone's scared of—if he hits first, it might be too _late_ to hit back."

Logan sat back, taking a long drink as the room took off.

Who said there wasn't anything to be learned it a good argument?

* * *

_Actually had to cut the kids off. Like most kids, ya get 'em talking and it's hard t'get them to shut up._

_Went all over the map. Turns out we've got some computer freaks. Turns out plenty'a them've . . . what do they call it? They surf the internet or whatever the hell, and turns out there're all sorts of rumors bouncing around out there._

_U.S. sneakin' spies into Genosha, tryin' ta keep an eye on him, or brainwashing mutants to do their dirty-work, from infiltration to attempted assassination. Maybe got Mystique back in Magneto's hand, doin' his work—or not, and he's just figured a way to take over and intercept all intelligence in the world. President got his own mutant bodyguards, or they've figured it's not safe to let any mutant see him, just in case. Some true, maybe, and some false, and the kids realized it when their sources started getting undermined and contradicted. Realize there ain't really anything we do know. Can't know if the government gonna go nuclear on our asses 'cause they decide we're too much of a threat, what with Ms. Marvel being down, or are smart enough to stay away 'cause they know I'll hunt them to hell if they decide to try._

_Fear. Might be the thing that's been causin' all the infightin' since the beginning of time, but after all this mess it's the only thing that keeps everyone from tearin' out each others' throats._

TBC . . . .


	38. ReEducation through Labor

Ha! I said it would be two weeks, and here I am at two weeks, posting just like I said I would.

So you readers out there, a review would be a nice reward, no? ;)

Anyway, sorry that I'm a bit giddy; I had my last day of student teaching yesterday, and am pretty much all wrapped up for this semester, just as I'm seeing all my friends begin to frantically study for finals next week. My lack of stress compared to their rising stress is something that is just a little bit buoying.

But no, I'm not a sadist. Not at all.

To business, then. Thanks you all for your reviews! I think I tried to responds to most of them this time, so check your inboxes and junk mail if you didn't get one. Thanks so much for those reviews: they made the last couple weeks of student teaching go a little bit faster, and for that I am most grateful.

So onto this chapter. Again, a bit slow on the _action_ part of things, but I can tell you that this was a jolly fun chapter to write, even if it was a bit more difficult than some. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Now, if you would excuse me, I'm going to go start chipping away at chapter 39 . . . .

* * *

Chapter 38: Re-Education through Labor

* * *

_Then:_

"I call." Gambit laid out his cards, and Heather groaned, throwing her own down on the table.

"Again? _Re_-my—"

"None a dat, cheri. Pay up."

Heather reluctantly slid the plate of Oreos across the table. Gambit took his winnings, carefully placing them on one of his growing stacks of cookies, then began gathering the cards together.

"Oh, no. Not again. After living off nothing but meat for days? I'm not going to let your come and get sick off junk food."

"Ah, you jus' afraid a losin', dat's all," Remy said, glancing over at her and flashing her a crooked smile. His red and black eyes flashed, but she didn't even blink. He shuffled the cards, his fingers adept and familiar on the deck. "'Sides, you ever hear a savin' 'em for later?" Remy arched the cards, flicking them sharply from hand to hand before glancing over his shoulder.

"It might be more fun if you let me win every once in a while," Heather said, half-teasing the young boy across from her.

"Aw, you not half bad youself," Gambit said, nodding towards the two Oreos at her elbow. "If you din't keep eatin' dem soon's you got dem, you'd have a good bit a'yo' own." He winked at her, and Heather smiled back, charmed by the boy.

"Fine. Last one, though, okay?"

"Truce den. Jus' one more," the kid said. He turned his head. "Wolvie? You play dis round, petit?"

Wolverine glanced over his shoulder at them. He arched his eyebrow, looking doubtfully between them, then at the cards. Gambit picked the top one and held it up between his fingers, and Wolverine's eyes narrowed.

"I tol' you, it just a card. A card game. Remy bet you play a mean hand wit' dat nose a' yours."

Wolverine just turned away, continuing his way around the room. He stopped at a line of books along a shelf, sniffing with curiosity before pulling one out and inspecting it suspiciously.

Remy looked up at Heather, then took one of his cookies and held it out.

"'Ey, Wolvie." He waved it, trying to coax him over.

Wolverine glanced over, then stopped, staring at the cookie. He frowned, his eyes moving to Gambit as he straightened, tilting his head as his brow furrowed.

He lifted his hand and flipped him off.

Heather choked on the Oreo she'd just taken a bite of. "Wolverine!"

Wolverine looked at her, wary at the tone of her voice.

Gambit snickered, putting a hand over his mouth, and Heather turned to glare at him.

"Okay, you two, that's enough," Heather said. She stood, putting her hands on her hips and facing Wolverine. "I won't have any of that here."

He looked confused now, and Heather stopped, a sudden thought occurring to her.

Did he even realize what he'd done was wrong?

Well, he'd known to do it in the first place, hadn't he?

She frowned, turning to the boy. "_You_ don't tease."

Remy took a bite of a cookie, looking thoughtful for his young age. "Jus' a couple days ago an' I wouldn't'a been," he mumbled.

Now what's that supposed to mean?

Wolverine was apparently ignoring them again. He'd put the book back and grabbed a magazine instead, and had slid onto the floor to sit, turning the magazine over in his hands. As Heather watched, he opened it, turning through the pages with extra care until coming to a stop. He held the book close to his face, then put it on the floor, bending over it so his nose was inches away from the pages.

Half-feral, but somehow he reminded her more of an inquisitive toddler.

Somehow sensing her gaze, he glanced over at her and frowned. Heather looked away as Remy finished dealing the cards.

The game ended as predicted—with Remy bringing home another victory. He gathered up his winnings and put them aside, and Heather glanced out the window. At least the rain was finally letting up.

Remy was shooting puzzled looks towards Wolverine as well, and Heather leaned close to him. "He can read?"

Gambit shrugged. "Dunno. Wouldn' be surprised, though," he added, almost to himself as he glanced over again. "What he readin'?"

Heather shrugged, standing from the table. She approached Wolverine slowly, but he looked up, his usual frown in place.

"Hey," Heather said, kneeling next to him. "What do you have there?"

Wolverine shrugged, and Heather leaned over. "_National Geographic_?" Well, what else would she expect to be at a cabin in the middle of the Canadian Rockies?

"_Mono o aware_," Wolverine said softly, apropos of nothing. It flowed from his tongue easily as he lifted his eyes, looking into the air at nothing.

"What does that mean?" Heather asked.

Wolverine shook his head, then shrugged, his hair hanging around his face as he looked back down. He was in the middle of an article on something Oriental—Japanese, it looked like. There was a picture of a tree obscured by thick, warped glass. A haiku was penned beneath it in elegant script.

A courtyard window  
This tree stands, remembering  
The old Tomoe.

"Well, you're supposed to start at the beginning, you know."

"Did."

"Hm?"

"Did," Wolverine murmured, his words a bit rough, barely above a whisper. "Last night."

That probably one of the longest responses she's gotten from him yet. She scanned the article. "_Mono o aware_," she read, tripping slightly over the unfamiliar words. "Seeing with the eyes of the heart." Wolverine frowned.

Encouraged by his attention, she tried for more. "I have to admit, I wouldn't cut you out as a reader."

A pause. She wondered if he had even heard her as his eyes scanned the page, or if he had decided to ignore her again. "'m not." He paused, sitting up from reading. A hand moved to his chest, then to his neck—again, not finding what he was looking for.

He paused, then glanced up at her, uncertainty breaking through his usual frown. He looked down—thinking through his words before he spoke them. "What . . . what day is it?" he asked, looking up at her.

Huh. This was something. He'd shown plenty of curiosity so far—sniffing around and inspecting everything in the cabin with grim scientific exactness, and sat through Heather explaining some of her pictures of the photo album he'd found, but had hardly been open in actually asking any questions he might have had.

"It's Wednesday. April 14, 1985."

Wolverine grunted softly, looking down again, his shoulders hunched around him.

Thinking . . . what?

Heather wasn't an expert on amnesia, even if she was a doctor. But even she could tell that this wasn't a normal case of brain damage. He seemed perfectly lucid and intelligent, if a bit slow at times, but seemed to have lost all memory of what it was like before, and was left with nothing but animal instinct—from his mutation? Forgotten everything, except the things that were creeping through the cracks. It seemed almost pick and choose—with him adapting constantly as random facts or understanding came front in his mind.

She looked at him. He'd trimmed his hair and chops back, making him look a little less like a wild man, and the last residual scarring from getting shot in the face was long gone.

Was that it? Was his contradicting knowledge and obliviousness due to his healing factor at work? Could it work with memories, reconstructing and connecting memories which had been lost—separated from consciousness?

How would it be, to know things and never remember how he learned them? To know how to read, to speak, and to have floating memories of ideas and objects, but having no context for that knowledge? To have his memories filled of being hunted by whoever had attacked him and Remy in the woods?

How long had he been out there, running wild in the woods? Months? Years? Decades? With his healing factor, would the time even show? She'd dealt with a mutant with a healing factor before, but it was nothing beside Wolverine's.

He had_ metal-coated_ bones_._ Well, that's what she assumed had happened. But how could anyone survive that?

Who would put another man through that?

Who _could_ have? The cost for some secret operation like this had to be massive.

What she would give for some of her lab equipment. The questions were driving her crazy, and she wanted to get cracking on the ones that might have answers to find.

She didn't know what Wolverine's thoughts concluded with, but he closed the magazine with a final frowning glance at her and stood, leaving it there on the floor as he pushed his hair from his eyes and moved towards the door.

Heather had been watching him, content to let him wander through the cabin. He didn't seem to mean any harm, and it was interesting to see him stop, picking up a wooden carved figure of a bear from a shelf, or sort curiously through the food cabinet, pausing to sniff and frown at each curiosity he found. It made her wonder what he was thinking.

So she didn't realize that he had moved to the door until he'd already pulled it open and stepped outside, closing it firmly behind him.

Heather looked up sharply as the door clicked shut.

"Wolverine?"

She stood up sharply, stepping quickly to the door and throwing it open. She expected to catch him on the porch, maybe standing in the rain-soaked mud at the foot of the stairs, but he was gone. Vanished in the gloom of the storm-dampened wood.

"Wolverine!" she called, scanning through the gloom and mist.

Silence answered—just the soft drip-drip of precipitation not quite heavy enough to call a shower. She shivered, pulling her head back inside and grabbing her coat and hat from beside the door.

"He take off?" Gambit asked. He hadn't risen from the table.

"I couldn't see him," Heather said, pulling the hat over her head.

"You not gonna find him 'nless he want t'be found," Remy said.

She supposed he knew best, but once Wolverine was out there . . . . What if he just started walking and decided it was too much trouble to come back . . . or simply forgot? She wasn't sure how his amnesia worked, but she couldn't just let him wander off alone. Even if James hadn't told her to keep him there . . . She hated the thought of having him out there, wandering on his own once again.

"I'll be back," she said. "If he comes back before me, just . . . try to keep him here, okay?"

* * *

Bundled up as Heather was, the cold barely touched her at first—just nipping lightly at her nose and leaking down the neck of her coat and giving her a slight shiver. But she folded her arms in front of her, walking forward on the small path.

She was sure the path wasn't man-made. James had said on their way there that the only way in or out was hiking, and even if his manager rented it out to the employees regularly, the weather hadn't allowed anyone out this far in months. Yet it was still well-tread: the new spring grass was well-worn and beat down by the passing of feet.

"Wolverine?" she called again—but not as loud as before. It felt silly, calling for him where he could be anywhere by now, and the damp forest seemed to swallow her voice whole.

Despite herself, she felt tears beginning to burn at the corner of her eyes.

"Dammit, James," she spoke to the air. This was supposed to be their time—a vacation from everything: work, people, family. And now here she was, stuck alone in the middle of nowhere with two strangers—a boy that was almost so good at dodging questions that he made her forget she had asked them in the first place, and a lost man that she wasn't sure how to help no matter how much she wanted to.

Except maybe now she'd lost him, maybe for good.

She sniffed, rubbing her eyes. No point in crying about it. Just head back to the cabin; maybe Wolverine had already returned, and was staring at the fire like he had for hours after she had built it up that morning.

She pushed a strand of damp hair from her eyes and turned around—only to run almost-full on into the short man standing right behind her.

"Ah!" Heather cried in surprise, jerking backwards. Wolverine was startled by her shout, and he blinked.

He took a wary step backwards, looking around the woods as if to find the source of the sudden spike in fear, then rise of anger.

"Wolverine!" Heather said, voice still sharp. "Where have you been? You can't just . . . take off like that without a word, you know. You almost gave me a heart attack!"

His wariness turned from confusion into something else—and he gave her a strange look as if she were the crazy one.

"'m fine," he said, his voice as soft as ever. He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "Heather."

It was funny to hear him say her name. Funny to hear him talk at all.

He seemed to feel the same way; he grimaced as he said it, looking away from her quickly and staring out into the woods. His hair was damp, his bare feet wet, and his breath white in the air, but he wasn't even shivering. In fact, he didn't even seem to notice it as he took a step forward, his feet uncringing at the rough earth beneath them.

He kept staring, his eyes flickering over the trees, and Heather hovered there, unsure what to do. He looked so much more in his element here—at ease—and suddenly she felt the one out of place.

"What is it?"

He glanced back at her, lifting an eyebrow. Looking back to the woods, he bent down, fluid as a panther, and straightened with a rock in his hand. He hefted it for a moment, and then drew back his arm and let it fly. It flew straight and true, disappearing into a tangle of brush with a thud and a squeal. A rabbit bounded out, jumping a good two feet in the air before it bolted forward, zig-zagging a blur through the grass and out of sight.

Wolverine watched it go, no sign of his thoughts on his still face.

At last Wolverine looked away from where the rabbit had disappeared and looked at her. It was a careful look: a curious one. She was the stranger in the woods, and he knew it.

Uncomfortable with his scrutiny, Heather looked away from him, stepping forward on the path. "What are you doing out here?" she asked, shivering. Just looking at him, standing there dressed as he was, only made her feel colder. "It's warmer inside, and . . . ." She paused, something occurring to her, even as it churned her stomach a bit. ". . . if you're hungry again, you could just ask." She couldn't imagine how he was, but maybe perpetual hunger was part of his mutant package.

He looked down at that, frowning, and Heather was surprised to realize that she'd hit at least part of it right on the button. He'd been hunting. She very pointedly did not let herself think too much in detail about _what_ he'd been looking to eat, and _how._

Hunt with his bare hands—those claws—and gulp eat the red meat raw.

Ulgh.

She shook her head, even more pointedly banishing that train of thought.

Goodness, she just hoped his appetite slowed down eventually, or maybe they would have to worry about foodstuff.

But Wolverine's frown had turned uncomfortable—guessing what she was thinking, she wondered?

"Aren't you cold?" Heather asked, unable to keep from asking.

Again the strange look. He shrugged.

Was that it? Could he not feel the cold? It would explain how he'd lasted in the Rockies in the middle of the winter.

"Jus' needed . . . ." he trailed off, uncertain with how to finish.

The silence grew long, and Heather tilted her head. "Some air?" she said, trying to help him.

He looked up at her, his frown deepening. "Jus' needed some air," he said, half affirming, half trying out the words. He moved towards a moss-wet rock, sitting down on it with his knees to his chest and his feet curled beneath him. He ran a hand through his damp hair, glancing between her and the forest, as if trying to make a decision. Cold as she was, Heather made herself wait, and tried to keep her knees from shaking.

He seemed to come to it, and sighed. "I know . . . . I know how it goes here," he said, the words gruff and clearly grudging of the halting manner in which he spoke them. "But I . . . ." He trailed off, looking out into the mist-green woods, the trees whose bases were still spotted with muddied, melting snow. His hands spread unconsciously over his knees, closing into loose fists as his thumbs ran lightly over his knuckles. "I don' know," was all he seemed able to finish with. "I don' . . . don't . . . _remember_."

The words were clear, but despite any the lack of even a hint plaintiveness in his voice, they seemed to strike the deep chord of the matter. He knew something was wrong, and that consciousness of his situation only seemed to make his situation more pitiable.

But even knowing as little as she did, Heather could see that Wolverine was not the kind of man to take pity well.

"What don't you remember?"

He looked down at his fists, frowning at them being clenched. He opened them, looking at his palms for a long moment.

"Family," he surprised her as he fumbled over the first word. "Cars. Men. _Human_. Had . . . had to remember. Didn't then. At first. At first . . . —dunno. Dunno why—" He looked up, his jaw clenching in some agitation as his fists closed again. "There . . . . Before . . . . I—I don't . . . ."

His agitation was chasing the words away; he couldn't think of the right ones to say, and it clearly frustrated him. Heather stepped forward, reaching out and touching his arm. He inhaled sharply and almost pulled away, but instead shut his eyes and breathed out a long breath; his hands unclenched.

"Dammit," he growled.

"It's okay," Heather said.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and lifted an eyebrow at her. There was a pause as he let the flood of words in his head pass, and settled on a phrase. "Sure's hell's not," he said, voice soft once again.

She didn't know what to say to that. She pulled her gloved hand down, but he was watching her oddly.

"Why?" he wondered out loud.

The one word made her look up again. "Why what?"

He looked away, then back at her, frowning deeper. He grunted softly, then stopped for the words he was looking for.

". . . never mind."

She wanted to press the point—whatever it was, it was clear it was bothering him—but he had stood from his place, pulling away from her and looking out into the trees again.

"_Mono o aware_," he murmured, soft enough that the still air seemed to swallow his voice. Heather could barely make out the words. "Too much. There's too much." He sighed, looking back at her. "C'mon," he said. "Let's get you back."

Heather smelled a bit surprised—at least, that's what Wolverine was able to pick up from underneath her layers of clothes. Must be warm, he thought, but then frowned as he realized that the woman was still shivering—her cheeks flushed with cold.

He walked just ahead of her, but glanced back, his frown deepening before looking forward again.

Of course he was a bit cold, too. His toes were cold, with the ends burning with the strange almost-numbness as his body refused to let the cold seep too deep. His legs were cold beneath the thin fabric of the pants Heather had given him, and only more so where the damp had soaked up to his knees. But it wasn't _that_ cold.

Not that cold at all.

He gave a slight shiver, but then shook his head—shaking it off.

It'd been colder before.

Still, he couldn't help but feel eager to do just as Heather had suggested: go sit next to the fire in the cabin, and let the heat seep down to his bones.

He listened to Heather's footsteps behind her. She walked loud; louder than even the kid had, at first.

But that was it, wasn't it? She didn't _have_ to walk quietly. She wasn't hunting, wasn't hiding. Wasn't running.

He glanced over, looking up towards the cloud-hidden tops of the snow-crested peaks of the mountains. The clouds still clung thick to their heights, but they were thinning in the distance; he thought he may even see a spot of blue sky in the distance.

That morning Heather had said the rain stopping was good—it would help James hurry back. He wasn't sure what that meant, and wasn't sure if he liked it, but Heather said it hopefully. It was something good?

As for Wolverine—he'd never liked the rain, but it hadn't gotten in his way. Still—Heather said it was a good thing. He hadn't seen her so cheerful before the rain had begun to stop.

He liked that, he realized. He didn't know why, but when she smiled . . . it was good.

He padded silently up the stairs of the cabin, skipping one that he had noticed made a loud creak when he had walked down them as he left. He paused by the door, waiting for Heather to open it. She looked at him as she came close and put her hand on the doorknob; he could smell some faint flowery scent in her hair, and wished he could put a name to it.

Not roses. Not daisies. Not lilac. Nothing he could remember, despite it smelling familiar. He'd smelled it before, but damn him if he could remember when.

She stepped in and he followed closer on her heels.

His stomach growled loudly, and Heather's lips quirked upwards in—amusement?—as she looked back at him.

"I'll go get you a snack. Just hold on a second, okay?" she said, kicking off her boots and hanging her coat up by the door.

Wolverine listened to her move to the kitchen, heard the kid ask if she'd found him and call some sort of welcome towards him. He ignored it, inhaling deep of the lingering scent of flowers as he stepped into the front room.

_Why do you care?_

Why would he care? It was flowers; something told him that he shouldn't be able to care less.

But he _did_ care.

He sniffed, scratching his head and grimacing at the thick smell of humans in the cabin.

_Lily? Poppy? _Pale, colored, vibrant. He could almost smell them; but for others he couldn't remember the smell at all. They jumbled together like a blur of color.

_Jasmine?_ No. Jasmine smelled . . . lighter. More delicate, white. Or was it red? It felt like it was red, but he couldn't remember.

_Lavender_.

The answer came to him and he lifted his head, immediately confident that he'd figured it out. That he'd remembered.

Heather smelled like lavender.

But as soon as the small victory settled on his shoulders he felt how stupid it was, though he couldn't say why, exactly. It just wasn't how it was _supposed _to be.

Wolverine shouldn't be excited because he remembered the name of a _flower_.

_Stupid bastard._

His eyes narrowed, and he stared around at the pictures on the wall as his feet carried him forward slowly. A lake, a group of people standing by a river with long poles. Doing what?

_Fishing_. They were fishing. He remembered it, somehow—he knew what it was. Different from fishing with his hands and claws and hunger like a knife in the gut.

He looked away, frustrated.

Flowers. Fishing. It was stupid, all stupid.

_Wasn't right. Couldn't remember._

He huffed softly at that, then stopped, blinking down at his mud-filthy feet. He frowned, twisting his head to look behind him and the trailing mud from the door.

Damn.

He traced his steps, stepping onto the welcome mat.

Not like he cared, but when he realized he was trailing mud on the floor he stopped and wiped his feet on the welcome mat, frowning at the boots Heather had left there. The leather was stained dark by the moisture of the new spring grass, and small clots of mud clinging to the bottoms. His gaze dropped further to his own feet again and his frown deepened.

What had happened to his boots, anyway? He'd had them . . . in the cave? Had he been wearing them when he was fighting the soldiers, and had them blown right off his feet? Did he lose them later? Or had he lost them before that?

He couldn't remember.

_Couldn't remember anything, damn it._

Where had he left them?

He clenched his fists.

_Couldn't remember._

He couldn't remember from before. He barely remembered waking up in the snow, so long ago. Or had it only been days? Time stretched—time meant nothing.

How long had he been out there? Heather had asked, but now the question bothered him like an itch he couldn't scratch.

_Had he left the boots by the river, after he'd found the kid sleeping there?_

He moved to the couch and sat down, rubbing his head. Boots. Didn't matter. He didn't need them, not like the kid needed them.

And who cared if he'd left them behind in the cave or had them burned off, or lost in the river, or simply forgotten them somewhere on the forest floor?

. . . .

Were they just sitting out there, forgotten? Grass growing up around them, burying them forever? Or had a wild animal dragged them away—chewed the rough leather down to nothing?

Maybe the soldiers had found them.

For some reason that thought chilled him—more than it should have. He clenched his fists.

_What would they care about a pair of boots?_

Idiot.

"Okay," Heather said, stepping from the kitchen, a bag in her hand. Wolverine looked up sharply. "I've got some beef jerky. Here." She held the package towards him, and he took it, the touch of the plastic strange against his fingers.

He looked at it briefly, but then set it aside; he wasn't hungry anymore. He just felt empty. Wrung out. Like hunger, but something else entirely.

"Wolverine? What's wrong?"

He looked up at her. He shrugged.

"Are you sure?" she asked, coming to sit down next to him. She put a hand on his shoulder and he flinched, almost choked on his own air before he froze, refusing to let himself pull away.

She kept doing that; kept touching him. Saw her touch the kid a couple times too. Just little things—brushing by him, a hand on the shoulder. Kid didn't seem to mind.

Really, he didn't mind either. It was good. He liked the feel of her touch, after the initial shock of suppressed panic.

He let out a soft, long breath, refusing the shudder that was working its way up his spine.

"C'nt r'member," Wolverine mumbled.

"You said that," Heather said, uncertain. He'd been more frustrated before—this sudden downturn in his mood left her at a loss of what to do—again. Heather waited for more, but when none came she prompted, "What is it?" He didn't answer, and she prompted, "Wolverine?" She felt stupid calling anyone that—let alone a grown man—but it was what he answered to.

Wolverine just shrugged again. "'s stupid," he muttered. He leaned back, slumping into the couch and rubbing his eyes.

He could feel Heather's eyes on him, watching his hands, his movements. For some reason he didn't mind this time. He was sorry that she'd pulled her hand away when he leaned back.

"What is it?" she asked.

'_S all wrong._

"'s nuthin'."

He couldn't say what; he couldn't say how. Too much to say. She couldn't understand; _he _didn't even understand.

"Wolverine, you can talk to me. I want to be your friend. I want to help, but I can't if you don't let me. I don't know how."

_Friend. _A new word, and an interesting one. It made his brain buzz, made the empty space in his chest echo. Both good and bad.

"'s it," Wolverine said, cracking an eye open to watch her. She smelled nice, no matter that she smelled like a human. He could ignore that part, if he tried hard enough. Ignore the stink of people everywhere. Ignore his own scent of humanity, even. He cracked a bleak, dim shadow of a smile. "I dunno either."

* * *

_Why?_

_That was the question I had wanted to ask her, but I couldn't figure how to word it. The question that I never really got the courage enough to ask her once I knew how to._

_Had spent all my memories running. Every human I'd run into since wakin' up in the cold had left me thinkin' they were animals: selfish. Been shot at more times than I could count, and not only by the clowns huntin' me._

_I'd been caught in their traps, punched in their cage fights, stabbed and blown apart and torn all the way down to my bones._

_I'd seen the kid was different, but he needed me. Figured he could'a turned on me if he thought it'd get him anything out of it._

_Then there was Heather._

_She took me in, gave me clothes, food, shelter. Didn't even have to ask. Even when I could still smell it on her: she was scared of me._

_Defenseless, afraid . . . but for some reason she didn't let that get in her way._

_She followed me out in the cold. Tried talkin' when it probably was like talkin' to a half-animal, back then._

_And I didn't get it. There was no reason—none—for her to help me. If she'd've been smarter she would have left me bleedin' out in the snow._

_Heather Hudson was the one to finally show me what it meant to be human._

* * *

TBC . . .


	39. Ace

Wow. Sorry guys; I hadn't realized it had been so long since I've updated. I even had this chapter practically finished a couple weeks ago. So sorry for the long wait! New semesters and all that.

It's also a factor that I'm currently taking a creative writing class from Brandon Sanderson (!!! Yeah, I know!), and so I've been putting a fair bit of time into original writings this semester so far. Nonetheless, I think I'm finally getting into the flow of things and will be able to split my writing time between that and this. So even though it's been a long break since the last chapter, expect the next one within the next two weeks. Maybe exactly two weeks. Yeah, I'll shoot for that.

Oh! I almost forgot: Self-Advertisement Time! In case any of you haven't noticed, I posted a non-related one-shot a couple weeks ago called _The Survivor_. It's kinda different from this and a bit rough (I wrote it between 1-3 in the morning and didn't bother editing), but I've gotten some gushing reviews about it. It's under my profile, so go check it out. ;)

Now on with the chapter. Thanks again for your support!

* * *

Chapter 39: Ace

* * *

_Now: _

Logan gathered up the scattered papers on the desk, stacking them in an almost-neat pile on the desk before fishing out a cigar and sitting back in the chair. He lit up, taking a deep breath and letting the reek of too many teenagers in too small of a space get buried in the scent of the smoke.

He stood, throwing open the door. A hundred scents wafted together—an ever-threatening, never-delivering headache looming just waiting for his healing factor to leave a space for it to strike.

But a scent caught his attention, and he turned around, eying the stranger in the entryway.

It was a black woman, with her hair pulled back in dozens of tiny braids, and the white lab coat marked her as a doctor as much as the scent of disinfectant that made Logan's nose itch from meters away. Probably never would become comfortable around that smell.

"Oh," she said, lowering her hand from where she had been reaching for the door. "Hello."

"'Bout time you got here. You must be the doc. Reyes?"

She blinked, then smiled. "Yes. Cecilia Reyes."

"How's Beast?"

"He'll live," she said. Logan grunted, tapping the ash from his cigar into a nearby potted plant. "Henry said you fixed him up. You did a good job, considering."

Logan ignored the unspoken question. "How long until he's back on his feet?"

"A little rushed, aren't you?" Dr. Reyes said. "He's lucky to be alive."

"Didn't answer my question."

She took his rudeness in stride, completely unphased by him. "Knowing Hank? A week—though he'll have to take it easy much longer than that. If I hear he's not taking care of himself, I may drag him off to the hospital, no matter the consequences."

Logan looked at her sideways, and she looked at him back. Too closely, Logan thought—like she was prepping him for a thorough checkup, or something. Made him twitchy.

She took a small step forward. "So. You must be Logan."

Logan folded his arms. "What if I am?"

"Nothing. It's just . . . nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you."

"From Chuck?"

"To name one, yes. You're . . . not what I expected."

Logan snorted softly. What do you say to something like that?

"You not one'a the X-Men?"

"Charles tried to bring me in more than once, but I wasn't meant for the life," Reyes admitted. "I've always wanted to be a doctor, and I'm not letting the fact that I'm a mutant change that. Still, I've helped out now and again. Xavier even set me up to work with some of the students, especially after what went down with Stryker and Alkali Lake."

Her frankness startled Logan. Nobody talked about that, and nobody actually said that name in front of Logan, even after all these months. "What?"

"The children," Reyes said, giving him _that_ look again. "It was traumatic for all of them, but most were too young or weak-powered for Stryker to care about. But more happened there than them just sitting in a pen waiting for you to come save them, Wolverine. You should know that better than anyone."

The hair rose on the back of Logan's neck. "What d'you mean?" he demanded. He took a stiff step forward. "You know somethin', lady?"

"Calm down," Reyes said, a bit irritated but not intimidated in the least. Made Logan wonder what her mutant power was, for her to smell so sure of herself. Well, he could wait her out. "You _are_ a bit tense, aren't you?" Logan's eyes narrowed at that. "It's not my place to tell you."

She reached for the doorknob. "Tell Ororo to call me when she gets back, all right?"

Logan nodded, not bothering to tell her that Ororo might not be back at all. Let someone who knew her better break the news.

She closed the door behind her.

Not connected to the X-Men his foot. That woman knew far too much to be an outsider. Knew more than he was comfortable with.

Wondered what her powers were.

He turned, glancing upwards as Jubilee stepped down the stairs, Kitty at her side. He smelled Jubilee's usual wariness, but she didn't look away when he glanced at her.

"Logan, you seen Rogue?" Kitty asked, worrying her lip. "She . . . she didn't come home last night."

"She was good enough last time I saw her. Took off after breakfast and—" Logan began, then stopped. He tilted his head, listening as he looked down the hall. Kitty listened as well, but couldn't hear anything except for some other students' voices from the game room down the hall. "Yeah," Logan finished. "Good as y'could expect."

He headed down the hall, heading towards the professor's office, and met the elevator from the downstairs opening. Rogue stepped out. "Still no sign of Storm, but I got somethin' else." She walked right past him, and Logan had to turn around and lengthen his steps to keep up with her stride as she pulled a black coat on and headed back down the hall.

"Somethin' else?" Logan repeated.

"Sounds like a friend a'yours," Rogue said, stopping her steps to pull on her gloves. He hadn't realized she'd had them off. "Ah just got a lead in the Big Apple. Cops've found thirteen bodies the last month alone—and get this: all drained out like husk 'n not a drop 'a blood left." She saw his face and gave a crooked smile. "Sounds like a vampire t'me."

"Bloodscream?" Logan clarified. "There's no way that creep crawled back together."

"And you're one t'talk. One way or another, figure'd it sounded like a job. How 'bout it?"

"Bloodscream?" Jubilee repeated. She and Kitty had come up the hall while they talked. "I thought he was dead." Her eyes darted to Logan and away.

"Either him or someone like him. Best way t'tell is t'get a'look at the bodies."

Kitty made a face, but Jubilee looked up again, looking determined for her youth. She stepped forward. "We're coming."

"Like hell," Logan said. Jubilee looked at him, and he caught her gaze. For once she actually held it, her dark eyes narrowing.

"So you're going to run off and come back half-dead and full-on crazy? Good freaking idea."

"Jubilee!" Kitty said, aghast.

"Settle down, y'all," Rogue interrupted, stepping forward. "We're just heading out on some old fashioned reconnaissance." She glanced at Logan. "You're gonna have to change though, old man."

Logan glanced down at himself; he was wearing his ubiquitous t-shirt and plaid over-shirt. There was a spot of beer that had left a stain, and he smelled enough of alcohol he figured even those without enhanced senses must've been able to pick it up rather easily. He frowned, then looked over at Jubilee. "'Sides, taking two of you half-pints along won't do anythin' to help our cover."

"He says to the girl that can walk through walls," Kitty said dryly.

"People were walkin' through walls long before mutants made the front page, hon," Rogue said. "Hairy over there was a regular James Bond—suit an' all. Could charm the whiskers off a cat, if he put his mind to it."

Kitty snorted a laugh at that, and Jubilee made a sound of disbelief. Logan gave Rogue a disgruntled look, but she paid it no mind.

"Let's get goin'. We don't want the trail growin' too cold now, do we?"

* * *

Rogue cruised down the crowded streets of New York City, her unbound hair flowing out behind her carelessly. Logan sat in shotgun, looking out at the masses they passed.

"I just can't get over it," Rogue said.

"What?"

"You," she said. Logan glanced up at her. "To think of you teaching school stuff to a bunch of teenagers. And normal teenagers, too—not mini-soldiers."

"Kids fight good enough."

"Yeah, but they're not soldiers, and you know it."

Logan just grunted at that, frowning.

"I think the funniest thing is that I can see it. You've always been like that: taking new recruits under your wing, showing them the ropes. In so many ways you haven't changed at all. But a _school?_" She chuckled. "Nobody could have called that."

"Couldn't'a called it myself, just a couple years ago," Logan said. "Can't figure how I got in this mess as it is. I ain't a leader, Rogue. This ain't the first rodeo I've been to—people've tried stickin' me up front before. Didn't work."

Rogue didn't respond at first, frowning. Memories of wars passed over her head, of Logan, dressed in black, darting like a shadow himself in the darkness during a mission. Memories of him stopping his truck and giving her a lift from the bitter cold of a Canadian winter, and of talking to him in easy conversation at the mansion.

She could think of things that he could be referring to, but nothing from the last twenty years.

"What do you mean?"

Logan just shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

Rogue maneuvered through the traffic and pulled the Mustang into a small space with ease, pulling the parking break up and hopping out without opening the door. She looked back at Logan, but he wasn't looking at her; she knew from experience that the subject was closed for him. He was ready for business.

She pushed open the smudged glass doors, waiting only a moment for Logan to hop out of the car and catch up with her before sliding in. No—sauntering was more like it. The coroner at the desk looked up, his rodent-like eyes magnified behind his glasses as he caught sight of her. He straightened, a hand immediately going to smooth his hair as another straightened his crooked tie. Rogue slowed a hair, a wry smile growing on her lips.

"Hey, sugah. Wonderin' if you could help a gal out."

Whatever she was doing, it did one thing—the man didn't even waste a glance on Logan as he stepped inside, keeping in the background.

Rogue came up to his desk, sitting down on the corner and sliding her hand across the wood as she leaned back. "Gotta flat tire, and my uncle here doesn't know the flat end of a butter knife from a car jack. Wanna lend a hand?"

"Y-yes!" the enthusiasm was almost too much; as it was, Logan was more than a little tempted to smack the guy.

He stood from his desk, and Rogue rose easily, taking one step towards him.

"Thanks, hon." Her hand brushed against his arm, and suddenly the man stiffened with a soft gasp. He collapsed bonelessly as Rogue pulled back, catching him by his jacket and easing him back into his chair. "You're a doll."

Logan felt like he'd swallowed his tongue.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded, striding forward to catch her arm.

She spun around, knocking his hand away as she pulled back on her glove. "Cool it, small fry. Ya got it, ya flaunt it." She strode past him.

"And what if you'd pulled another Ms. Marvel act?" Logan snapped, coming forward to check his pulse. Slow, but steady—guy would live, just with a hell of a headache.

"Not likely. Guy was a normal; chances are yesterday our powers just crashed and overloaded the both of us. 'Sides, ah had t'try it sometime. C'mon. The bodies are in the back." Rogue typed in the password into the padlock with experienced fingers and the lock clicked open; she didn't wait to push on through. "His buddy ran out for a coffee break; we need t'rabbit before then."

She stepped into the pristine back room, and Logan stopped, his ire dissipating as his nose took in the thick stench of dead bodies, antiseptics, and dried blood. Rogue had already moved to the nearest desk, pulling out a clipboard and paging through the papers there. Logan moved to the metal shelves, his nose twitching as he took hold of one of the handles and pulled it open.

The body slid out on the flat slate, feet first. He didn't bother with the paperwork or the toe tag; he lifted the white sheet back from the man's face and pulled back with an involuntary grimace.

"What do you have there, hairy?" Rogue stepped forward, but paused, making a face at the sight. For a second the experience and confidence gave way to disgust as she greened slightly. "Ugh. Now that ain't normal."

To call the body shriveled would have been an understatement; guy looked like someone'd begun to mummify him and only gotten half way through the job. His eyes were sunken, his teeth bared in a dried-out grimace, and his skin hung around his bones like a loose sack.

"Robert Kripke. 23-years-old," Rogue said, checking the chart. "Cause of death unknown. Found yesterday ago. Healthy as a mountain goat; he was out running and just didn't come back."

Logan pulled the sheet back farther, grimacing as he caught sight of the handmarks on the corpse's throat—fiery red against the grey ashenness of the dried-out skin.

He wasn't surprised; he'd smelled the bastard vamp's scent as soon as he'd pulled out the body.

"Son of a bitch drained him down to nothing," he said.

Rogue didn't need clarification. "Says he was found not three blocks from here. You up for some tracking?"

Logan glanced up at her through his hair as he covered the body again and slid the drawer shut. It didn't do anything to help the smell.

"How many more like him?" he asked, glancing around the room.

"Thirteen."

Logan nodded. Half of him was still protesting the idea of Bloodscream being alive, but the other half had moved far beyond that. Assessing.

13 bodies in a month, and who knew how many homeless bums that would never be found. Guy'd be strong. Stronger that even before, perhaps.

_How'd he know that?_

Did it matter?

_Building his strength. He's coming after you again._

But it wasn't fear that he felt: it was irritation. Bastard just wouldn't get the hint, would he? He'd dice him up, and he'd always come back. Always—more bodies, more police investigations, ending with Bloodscream crawling away in pieces, or Wolverine escaping into the water, into the air. Falling, swimming, running. Waking up to find the bastard gone, feeling blood rushing in his veins as he fought to heal. Neither of them would ever win; neither of them ever could.

"You okay, Wolvie?"

Logan twitched, looking up at her sharply. "Yeah. Jus' thinkin'.

It didn't help that the bastard was a coward on top of it. Wouldn't just come out and fight. He lurked. Waited. Struck in the quiet of the night, stepping out of the shadows, out of the jungles, out of the snowdrifts. Obsessed and insane.

Too many of those in his life.

_Really? Like who?_

He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly.

Too many always hunting him, never catching him. Never winning, never losing. Caught in some eternal struggle so old that they didn't even remember why they were fighting anymore. Just for hate and pain and blood.

_Blood like flowers, like pure winter melting, like earth and air and water—all bleeding. The smell choked its way down his throat._

He opened his eyes abruptly. Rogue was watching him.

How long had he been standing there, silent?

Logan stepped to the door. "What the hell we waitin' for, then?" He felt strange. Unbalanced, sick—like if he leaned forward too much he might just tip right over the edge, and he wasn't sure what he'd find on the other side.

_Ignore it._

Probably just still healing. Scarlet Witch, fall from a building, and then a night of beer with only a couple of hours of sleep—all within 24 hours. Enough to strain even his healing factor.

He walked past Rogue, pushing open the door and distancing himself from the stink of death and chemicals.

The stench still clung to his clothes, his skin, his very bones—enough that he was almost grateful for the smog-and-dirt stink of the street as they walked past the unconscious coroner and out of the morgue.

They left the car behind. Three blocks was a short walk, and the mustang was far too recognizable. If they needed to rabbit they didn't want anyone tracking them. Stupid; shouldn't have taken it in the first place. Had to keep a low profile—keep their heads down, get in, get it done, get out. Be back with a clean report and the mission completed.

No overt government involvement, no more civilian casualties. Just get the job done.

He was still two store-fronts down from the alley when he smelled it. He didn't have to ask Rogue; they'd found their spot.

He turned into the alleyway and stopped, letting his nose adjust to the scent of piss and layered filth that had been pounded into the walls and asphalt by decades of passing hobos.

He stepped forward slowly, dismissing the layers of graffiti as he eyed the place from top to bottom. The reek of body fluids made his eyes water—and above it all the stark stench of fear and blood.

He crouched down, zeroing in on a small spattering of dried blood that had fallen on the remains of some unidentifiable mat of grime.

"Got him?"

"Couldn't miss him," he said, glancing up. Rogue stepped forward, high-heeled feet sure despite the uneven terrain. Logan straightened. "It's him. 'Bout a day old—right time frame. Just can't believe he crawled back out of that. He was scraps—probably not a bone left whole."

Rogue nodded grimly, and Logan had a passing thought that Carol may have seen the result of his berserker rage before, sometime long in the past—and through her, Rogue. He scowled, walking back onto the sidewalk. He glanced down the street, ears perking up at the sound of sirens.

"What do you think?" Rogue asked, looking in the same direction.

"Worth looking into," he said, glancing back in the direction of the mustang.

Rogue gave a soft laugh, stepping off the ground and into the air. Behind them a boy on a bike crashed into a garbage can, knocking it over with a clatter. She hovered, weightless. "How 'bout a lift?" she asked, smirking.

"Very funny." She probably couldn't even get off the ground, carrying his extra weight and metal.

"I'm serious."

Huh. Maybe she was. Ms. Marvel's punches sure had felt a lot stronger than they should have been without a little extra power boost.

Logan rubbed his jaw, raising en eyebrow. "So much for keepin' a low profile, eh?"

"Don't see the harm. Carol flew around all the time without a hassle."

"Danvers didn't have the Avengers on her ass."

"The only one still about would be Tony, and he hasn't a chance of taking us both alone." She looked up as another police car sped past, sirens blaring. "C'mon, big boy. We're missing all the fun." She flew down, catching him beneath his arms and lifting him right off the ground.

Logan managed not to yelp as she suddenly shot up into the air. A second later they were above the rooftops, speeding north. He reached up, holding his hat on his head as the wind threatened to pull it right off.

"Put on a little weight, haven't you?" Rogue commented.

He ignored that. Easier than figuring out an answer, or trying to figure who in Rogue's head was saying it. "Sure looks like trouble," he called over the wind, as he refused to dwell on the oddity of his position and his feet swinging over the empty expanse as they rose to meet New York's high-risers. The murmur of the city faded, and his fingers grew cold in the air as the cars below began to grow small with the height.

"Keep low," Logan ordered sharply, looking up at her as they sped over block after block. Her face was up, her hair streaming back as she flew, completely unstrained despite his added weight. "You don't know how long Ms. Marvel's powers're sticking around."

"They aren't going anywhere yet," Rogue said. She dove down, and Logan tensed without thinking as his stomach flipped before she slowed her descent.

"That's does it," he strained. "Put me down."

"Didn't take you for someone scared of heights," Rogue said, rounding the mirrored structure of a skyscraper.

_He wasn't. He could remember flying—but not like this. Falling. Jumping out of airplanes and throwing out his arms. It was dark; the ground wouldn't see them coming. Even if they did, what could they do? He twisted, spinning in the air, doing a flip in nothingness and grinning a bit despite himself. Across the way another of the team caught his eye, and fingers like claws dug into his shoulder as hot breath growled in his ear—somehow still audible despite the roaring of the wind._

"_Get yer head in the game, runt."_

Logan gritted his teeth against a sudden rise of bile in this throat as a lance of pain like a bullet shot through his head. He gasped, biting off a groan.

That voice—hot, reeking like decaying meat. He knew it, he _knew _it. Made his claws burn within his wrists, made fury rage in his chest, made his eyes turn red with it.

_No._

That wasn't right. Sure, he'd done his number of drops, but never with a team. Not at night, dressed in black.

God, he was going to be sick.

"Logan?" Rogue sounded like this wasn't the first time she'd called his name.

"Yeah, what?" he snapped, bringing his hand down from his forehead. He had half expected it to come away red with blood.

"You just went stiff, Wolvie—you not going to sick up down there, are you?" her tone was light, but Rogue didn't bother trying to hide the underlying concern.

"I'm fine," Logan lied, the words cut short as he focused on bringing his claws back into his forearms from where they'd slid into his fists, marking dark bruises to quickly heal over and leave nothing but a dull ache

_TBC . . . ._


	40. TeamUp

Ha! Told you it would be two weeks. Go me!

I think I had a little too much fun on this chapter. Just go with me on this, okay? ;)

Thanks for the reviews!

I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 40: Team-Up

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_Now:_

Logan looked down from Rogue, refusing to think beyond what was right before him.

_He needed to get his head in the game._

He'd smelled the smoke, and beneath them people were scattering—deserting their cars as they fled down the street away from the ruckus. Smoke was billowing out of a toppled semi.

"What the hell?"

Rogue's grip tightened as she swooped downwards. "Looks like a job for the Avengers. Do you see anyone?"

He figured she wasn't looking for the Joneses. He looked to the skies. "You mean Stark?" he squinted, ignoring the lingering pain behind his eyes.

"I mean the Hulk, hairy. You know? Green, bad attitude? The bad guy?"

Looked up at her sharply, but she was serious. He looked down. "Doesn't look like the Hulk's handiwork to me," he muttered. Not big enough of a mess.

Rogue gave him a look at that, but didn't ask. "Couldn't be your guy?"

Bloodscream? "No chance. Not his M.O." The pain intensified behind his eyes, but he gritted his teeth, focusing on the smoke burning his nose and the chaos below.

_CRASH!_

"What the flaming hell—?"

Something—no, _somebody_—came shooting through the fourth story of a brick building on the other side of the street, and a second later something metal followed, ripping through the wall as if it were made of cardboard.

Logan's fists clenched, but the thought of Magneto vanished as soon as he saw the body attached to the tentacles. No—the _arms_ were attached to a guy's _body—_like four extra, tentacle-like arms, sprouting out of his back like a weed_._

Looked like he had found their bad guy.

Wolverine bore his teeth, glad to have a target as the pain in his head faded behind his own rushing blood.

Just what he needed.

"Fastball," he said, not sparing a second to wonder if Rogue could do it. Octopus-guy had already leaped down the building, sending bricks and chunks of wall falling as people fled. He grabbed a car as he reached ground level, throwing it across the street.

Rogue lifted him, pulling back her arm before shooting him forward with enough force to put Colossus to shame as Logan felt his lungs drop down to his feet. He strained to pull up his arms, his eyes blurring as the wind caught him.

_SNIKT!_

Metal arms whipped around, and even as Wolverine descended down at a blinding speed, one of them lashed out.

Metal on metal echoed up the sides of the skyscrapers as Wolverine was caught full-sided by the metal arm and deflected into a parked car. He broke through the roof, smashing the front seats and bending the wheel right down to the floor.

Octopus-guy staggered back from the force despite the deflection, whipping around as Rogue darted down. An arm snatched at her, sharp, clawed ends grasping, but she dodged aside, twisting to grab hold of it.

"Keep your hands to yourself, ugly," Rogue said, jerking back and taking him with her as she twisted, ripping him through the air and letting him go as the other arms grabbed at her. He tumbled through the air, arms flailing until he slammed through a window across the street in a tangle of limbs. "Ain't no way to treat a lady."

"Hey, thanks for the help, but watch out, will ya? You almost squashed me with Doc Ock, and trust me—that's not the way I want to go, ya know?"

Rogue darted to the side as something swung past her, but stopped as she recognized the red-and-blue blur.

"Spider-Man?"

The webslinger spared enough time to give her a thumbs-up before he slung down, vanishing into the now-gaping hole of the store front.

Logan lifted his head, blinking away bright lights as he yanked his foot out of the hole he'd kicked through the floor of the car in his landing. He snarled, pulling his way out and staggering clear of the ruined car and jumping down to the asphalt. He wavered on his feet, looking up, his claws popped.

Something green was shooting from the sky downwards, right towards Rogue.

"Ace, your six!" he roared.

Rogue whipped around just as the Vulture slammed into her, then twisted, carrying her up and out of sight.

Logan swore, but there wasn't anything he could do to help her up there. He whipped around and bolted across the street with hardly a pause to yank the twisted piece of metal that was jutting out of his thigh and toss it onto the street.

Spider-Man swung across the street, landing on a telephone pole as Doc Ock lifted a car across the street and hurled it at him. He leaped down, crouching beside an abandoned car in the middle of the street. Wolverine ran low join him, peering over the car.

"This clown got any powers, or are the arms it?"

Spider-Man did a double take, though the slant of his head made it so it could be either at the sight of the blood or his hair. "Whoa. I thought you were down and out, treasure troll—"

"I heal fast. _Powers_, kid!" Doc Ock was speeding towards them, his metal arms gleaming.

"Nah. Just an ego to give Mr. Fantastic a run for his money. You?"

Doc Ock smashed over the car, flattening the top and descending down. Wolverine twisted, barely avoiding impalement as an arm slashed past his leg, shattering the asphalt beside him.

_SNIKT!_

Metal sparked against metal; whatever those arms were made of, it wasn't just stainless steel.

But it wasn't adamantium either.

He struck. Metal screamed and Doc Ock pulled back with his arms flailing, leaving behind the clawed end still buried in the asphalt, cleanly severed from the arm.

"Impossible!" Doc Ock shrieked, striking out at Spider-Man as he caught one of his tentacles and swung around it like a blue-furred circus performer that Logan knew.

"That's what _I_ thought too," Spider-Man said, flipping a tentacle and landing on the storefront on the side of the street. His mask was slightly torn; Logan could see blood trickling down from a bruised cut from the side of his forehead as he looked down, getting a clear look at his claws. "Holy crap! Wolverine? From the X-Men? Ohmygosh, I am _such_ a fan." He leaped upwards, catching an arm and swinging around it and up and around another, twisting in mid-air to avoid being skewered. He kicked off, landing on the wall on a brief break of his acrobatics. "Did that sound too gay for you? I mean, I'm a fan of the Avengers, and I'm a fan of the X-Men. Like, you guys inspire me. Not a groupie, though. I ran into a bunch of those last week—rare in this city for me, I gotta tell you—and they were _craaaazy_."

Logan ducked sharply as Doc Ock shot a car by his head. It rolled, shedding sparks along the street. "How many walls has he hit you through, kid?"

Another laugh, though a bit shaky. Logan could smell blood; blasé as this goof-ball pretended to be, he'd taken some hard hits and was tough enough to keep running.

"Kid? Hold on one second, gramps."

Spider-Man caught two of the flailing arms with his webs, whipping in feet-first and slamming into Doc Ock's gut. There was a loud crack and he screamed, his real arms whipping around his ribs.

Spider-Man swung out, barely avoiding the wild-swinging tentacles. "Oh man," he said, looking back. "I told you I didn't want to hurt you, Doc. I'm a nice guy, really. Just give up and we can make this easy on the both of us."

"RRRRrrrahhhh!" Spider-Man leaped over a backhand from a tentacle, but a second whipped around catching his leg and swinging him into the wall.

_CRACK!_

At the same time, Doc Ock twisted, and a flying arm caught Logan sharp in the gut. He skidded across the street, bouncing— skin tearing until he slammed against another car and stopped dead.

"Argh!" Logan gasped, tearing himself from the second car in two minutes. His skin burned—road-rash not deep enough to kill the nerve endings, and just deep enough to make it feel like his skin was fire.

Enough with the small talk; if four-eyes was playing easy when he started, he was dead serious now.

So was Wolverine.

Wolverine straightened and sprinted forward, even as his skin crawled back over him. Doc Ock had turned, and was taunting Spider-Man . . . but Wolverine didn't hear the words—just a growing roar of blood and rage.

A metal hand swung towards him, dodging his claws and aiming for him. Logan ripped forward, letting the claw slam into his gut as he tore down—severing it from the arm.

He ripped the severed limb from his side—it hadn't plunged fully through, and he could already feel his innards crawling back together as he lunged forward again, one hand around his gut to keep it all in.

"Oh, God!" Spider-Man gasped, ceasing his attack briefly to stare at him. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Another arm shot down, and Logan jerked to the side to avoid being impaled again. The arm caught him around the chest, squeezing his arms down and useless. The arms squeezed; he figured if he hadn't had an unbreakable ribcage he'd have pureed lungs at this point.

Spider-Man hadn't stopped swinging, but he hadn't stopped babbling either. "You just . . . you just cut through his arms, just like that. Do you know how many ties I've tried to do that? Seriously. I've tried saws, big machinery, the works—"

"Less talk," Wolverine snapped, a bit breathless from the pressure despite his metal ribs.

"Oh, yeah," Spider-man said, snapping out a web to Doc Ock's glasses and whipping them off his face. "Been waiting for that opening the last hour." He shot in, webbing Doc Ock's face. "Classic webbing-to-the-face win, and . . . ." A handless metal arm struck from the side, catching Spider-Man and sending him careening through the air.

Wolverine snarled, tearing skin from his arm as he yanked it free and cut down. The arm whipped back, dodging his claws, but he landed in a roll, coming up with a sweeping kick around Doc Ock's real feet. He landed on his ass, and Wolverine twisted, bringing his claws down to end it for good.

"NO!"

Spider-Man leaped down faster than thought, catching his arm. Wolverine couldn't move his fist if he wanted to.

He snarled, whipping back with his other arm, and Spider-Man leaped back, letting go to avoid getting skewered, and Wolverine went in to finish the job. He retracted his claws at the last moment, clubbing fatty over the head. He slumped, unconscious, but the arms struck in, conscious despite their master's unconsciousness.

_Crap._

Wolverine lashed out, shredding another arm down to a 3-foot stump, and another whipped in, electricity sparking from its slashed end as Wolverine ducked back, blocking it with a forearm before flipping backwards. The arms flailed after him, blind and sparking.

Webbing poured down, growing thick and binding the metal to the concrete. Disarmed of the sharp claws, they were bound fast.

"That should hold him until SHIELD shows up." Spider-Man swung down, and rubbing his shoulder gingerly as he turned on him, shaking an accusatory finger. "You tried to stab me!"

Logan spared him a glare. "If I had tried you wouldn't be walking right now, kid." He rubbed his knuckles. At least the road-rashes were almost gone, though his jacket would need to be replaced. Again. He pulled off the tattered remains and tossed them onto the road.

"It's Spider-_Man_," the costumed hero said, sounding more than a little petulant. Logan grunted, but breathed in, inhaling the scent of blood.

"You gonna hold up? We got a doctor we can call in that knows how to keep her mouth shut."

"You're one to ask," Spider-Man replied, eying the bloodied tear that had been ripped right through his previously white t-shirt. "Thanks but no thanks. Just a little R and R right now would do wonders," he finished, but not without a tired sigh as he sat gingerly on top of a toppled car's side, one leg hanging over the side. "'Sides, the Fantastic Four usually patch me up if I need it."

"How old _are _you, kid?"

Spider-Man's head tilted as the question took him off guard. "Hey, you see me asking any personal questions?" Beat. "Okay, I _have_ to know. How _do _you get your hair to stick like that? I mean, beneath this mask I have permanent hat-hair, you know?" Another beat. "Or is that what happened to _you_?"

Logan growled. Spider-Man stepped back, raising his hands, but Logan just reached down to pick up one of the severed ends of the clawed arms.

"What're you doing with that?" Spider-man wondered, scratching a small patch of brown hair that was sticking out of the side of his torn mask.

"Souvenir." Logan looked up as Rogue flew down, her arm firmly holding the neck of a weakly struggling man in a headlock. His abnormally large nose looked freshly broken and one eye was already swollen shut, and his mechanical wings were so battered they were hardly recognizable. Rogue looked as unbothered as if she had just walked down the stairs for breakfast. "You okay, ace?"

"Spiffy."

Spider-man looked up at the sound of approaching helicopters, and as sirens marked approaching cops.

"And _now_ they show." Spider-Man looked over at Logan. "Look, buddy. I know better than everyone not to trust the what the news say, but I really hope that you didn't really have anything to do with taking the Avengers off the street. The Silly Six popped up as soon as the news hit the tube."

"The who?"

"Call themselves the Sinister—Insidious? Sinister? Whatever—Six. A bunch of my best fans that like to gang up and line up for a beating. You know—the usuals. Doc Ock and Vulture were the last. Just . . . take it easy out there, okay? There's enough bad guys in the world for us to deal with without fighting each other."

"Yeah, whatever."

Spider-Man swung off, and Rogue watched him go.

"I like him," she said. Logan didn't answer, and she continued, "We offered him a spot on the Avengers not long back, but he prefers to work alone."

Logan grunted. The job had a sweet enough package: fame, popularity, and probably a good salary too. Whole lot better than most superheroes had it.

Said a lot about the kid that he'd turned down the offer.

* * *

_Stuck around to help some injured get some help. Police showed up lookin' for Webs, and Rogue and I were overlooked, even a bit battered as we looked. Another reason not to bother with the stupid uniforms. They shoot the whole idea of "discreet" to hell._

_We kept workin' until it looked like the cops had everythin' under control, then took off. Not literally, though. Walked back to the alley and followed Bloodscream's track until it got lost in the stink of the city and people. We went to the car and drove back to the mansion, with no more of a lead on our original mission than before._

_Funny to run into Spider-Man. Sure, ya hear about superheroes, but I've never bothered keepin' up on the news. Never figured to run into the guy._

_Never thought he'd be so young. Could be a student here, if he wanted. Wonder if the prof ever asked him to join. Wonder why Cerebro doesn't show him on the scans. Normal humans don't take hits like he was takin' and just get up and walk away._

_Pryde's not happy at bein' left behind, though. When we got back she couldn't seem to figure if she wanted to wring us for every detail of meeting the Spider-kid or if she didn't ever want to talk to us again. Apparently she's a fan._

_'Bout the same age by the smell of him, too._

_I wonder if . . . Heh._

_Nah, forget it._

_TBC . . . . _


	41. I Felt a Funeral in My Brain

Here's the next chapter. This last month or so has been killer when it comes to trying to find time to write. Maybe it's the time of year. More likely it's just my original fiction writing class I'm taking right now with Sanderson; my focus has been there rather than here as of late. I'm patting myself on the back for getting this chapter done :).

I used the fact that today is officially my birthday as of five minutes ago as an added incentive to get myself and and going to get this chapter posted.

I hope you enjoy. I'd love to hear from you guys.

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Chapter 41: I Felt a Funeral in My Brain

* * *

_Now:_

Logan had dozed off to sleep—slumped in the one-man couch in the corner of his room.

His chin was low against his chest, his arms flopped haphazardly—one leg swung over the arm of the chair. But despite his lounging position, the distress of his dreams was beginning to become apparent.

Sweat beaded his brow as his eyes shifted beneath eyelids. His jaw tightened beneath thick chops—his teeth grinding together. His breathing grew ragged.

He shifted, his hands curling into fists as his breathing quickened.

Suddenly his eyes shot open and he was moving—a blur as he jerked forward and flew off the couch. He whirled around, putting his back to the wall and raising one hand as his eyes darted around the room, a hand automatically seeking the gun that was always tucked in the back of his belt . . . .

Two seconds after awaking and he had the room assessed—two easy exits from the windows. Lamp, towel, beer bottles on the floor could be used as weapons—either for him or the enemy.

He went still—listening for the sound that had awoken him. There'd been something . . . . There'd been _something . . . ._

He stood there, stiff and silent—eyes dark and wild, teeth bared, panting his breath as sweat dripped down his face as he waited . . . .

His gasping slowed—his eyes blinked, and slowly recognition dawned.

He pulled away from the wall, straightening and dropping the beer bottle he hadn't realized he'd grabbed after failing to find a gun in his belt. It hit the carpetless floor with a sound too loud for the still night and rolled under the bed, falling still.

Logan didn't move—it barely seemed that he was even breathing.

He stood stand-still for in the darkness, silent, unmoving. Far away beyond the windows of the mansion a lonely winter crow called out before falling silent in the chill that foretold the coming winter months.

And in the darkness, Logan laughed.

"Heh."

It was a cold laugh—soft and humorless, and swallowed up by the darkness as quickly as it had come, leaving only the bitterness.

He fell back onto the bed, grabbing a half-empty beer from the nightstand and tipping it down his throat. The liquid slid down, and he tossed the empty bottle away, sitting up.

He couldn't even remember this dream. Couldn't even remember it when he came to himself, flattened against the wall. Couldn't even remember what he'd been thinking.

Heart still pounding with adrenaline, though. Felt cornered, somehow. Cornered with nowhere to run.

The feeling had left him sweating. He was prepped to kill—prepped to fight his way out, and anyone that got in his way wouldn't last long enough to do more than scream.

He lifted a hand, wiping sweat from his face.

Was he even awake now? Was he dreaming?

Was it all just that—dreaming? One never-ending nightmare, tying together day after day after day after day . . . .

_. . . . There was something he needed to do—something he needed to finish. But the bastards could wait—he'd be back in time for them to send him out again. He'd be rested and ready to do what he did best . . . ._

Keep low. Keep low, don't trust anyone. Not them, not the team, not anyone.

What the hell was the point of it all?

_So tired . . . tired of running . . . . Sick 'n tired. . . . _

Faces. Cracked and black and bleeding. Smiling, laughing, crying. Lying on the floor, on the road, beneath his feet. He could smell their fear, their pain—the death. Filling trenches, filling his nose, filling his head, pulling him down.

Had he killed them all?

Men. Women. Children, even. Dead eyes watching him, waiting for him to join them, bleeding tears. Waiting to catch him with skin-less fingers, digging, tearing, ripping . . . .

They'd wait forever, just out of sight—just out of memory. Haunting, invisible, faceless.

Black hair against red. White flowers scattered on the floor, cast in black shadow of the night. Blood. He could smell the blood, and it made him scream. Screaming, never to stop, but without sound as he was swallowed up, drowning in bitter green despair that bled down his throat, filling his lungs, his chest . . . .

Logan sat up abruptly with a choked breath, cutting off his own thoughts as they began to spiral into chaos. Sweat had beaded on his face again, and he leaned forward, clutching his hair as he shut his eyes against the darkness of the room that was so familiar, but suddenly so strange.

He was losing it.

Finally, truly—he was snapping.

He kept his eyes closed, consciously breathing deeply of the scent of the room—his scent. Breathing in his blood and dirt and bile and fear. Breathing in the scent of the dead—he could still smell Jean where she had walked, not many months before. He could even still catch a trace of Summers, though he couldn't remember the last time he'd stepped his foot in there. More ghosts—still lingering despite their bodies being long gone.

Then, the living.

Beast. Kurt. Storm—airy and earth-rich.

Various kids—most brief and fading after the rare visit into his room. The Icicle's and Angel's, months apart—probably from pranks or a dare which Logan hadn't bothered figuring the details.

Kitty, her scent ethereal as she could become. Rogue, filled with her energy and trust and southern stubbornness. Jubilee, from the time Kitty had dragged her along with her once; the kid's scent hovered near the door, uncertain, but stubbornly defiant beneath that. Kylee's—clear above the scent of beer and cigars, open and fearless as a person could be.

Logan's eyes opened, and he lifted his head, staring out into the darkness, suddenly wondering.

Where the hell was Kylee?

Dammit, what was he thinking? It was two o'clock in the morning, for crying out loud. Kid was probably asleep.

But the furball hardly liked to sleep in her room even when Ororo was sleeping across the hall.

Ororo. Storm'd been the one to watch after the kid—make sure she ate, bathed, all that mess. All the other kids were old enough to take care of themselves more or less, but Kylee . . . .

Logan was off the bed before the thought was finished. He crossed the room, opening the door silently and slipping down the hall, cursing himself mentally.

Stupid. She'd probably just fallen asleep in her own bed, or maybe in one of her hiding places.

She'd run off before.

And who'd been watching out for her? She'd been sulking at dinner the night before, and she'd stayed quiet during breakfast—Logan had hardly noticed her. Logan'd missed lunch and eaten leftovers for dinner, after most everyone had already cleared out.

She could have run off hours ago and nobody would have even noticed.

He pushed open her door, but before his eyes adjusted to the darkness he knew she wasn't there. Her scent was hours old.

Same with Ororo's room. Darkened, the moonlight from the large windows glimmering off the leaves of the potted plants hanging from the ceiling, sitting along the floor. The room was neat, clean, the bed made without a single wrinkle—but the air smelled like earth and life, though the plants smelled a bit on the dry side without their mistress to water them.

Storm was gone, and there was no sign of Kylee.

Logan swore, hitting the doorframe as he turned around.

There was no point in waking the team; Logan would track her down easy enough.

He headed down the stairs, ignoring the chill of the coming winter in the stones beneath his bare feet.

He should have seen this coming. Kid hadn't been pouting about something petty like he'd immediately assumed. Storm was like a mother to her; she'd just lost another parent—again.

And he hadn't even thought about it, dammit.

Normally Rogue might have helped her out; she was like a big sister to the kid. But with everything going on the past couple days Rogue'd been busy with her own problems.

Didn't know if anyone had thought twice about the kid all day.

He stalked the main floor, parsing the scents of students, and catching a whiff wherever Kylee had been. Her scent was all over the place—particularly in her favorite sunny seat in the front sitting room. Catching a fresher scent, he headed into the back porch, frowning down at the night before slipping forward, a shadow himself in the darkness.

A cat meowed in the darkness and Logan twitched, glancing in its direction before dismissing it. He stepped onto the lawn, then straightened from his tracking, looking towards the barn.

He slid the door open quietly, murmuring to calm the horses that nickered nervously at his entrance. He stood there, inhaling the scent of dust and straw and hay before padding up the narrow staircase that led to the loft.

He didn't see her at first. The loft was piled high with bales and straw, and was all but pitch-black.

But he could smell her, and that was enough.

He crawled forward on hands and knees quietly, the straw rustling as he pushed it aside.

There was a quiet shifting beneath his hand—the tickle of soft fur and whiskers as luminescent green eyes cracked open in the darkness.

"W-wolvie?" she asked drowsily. "Wha's wrong?"

"Shh. Nothin'. Just takin' you inside." He eased her into his arms carefully.

"Mmm," she yawned, turning to snuggle against his t-shirt against the chill of the night. A hand curled in his shirt.

Her face was against his chest; his heart pounding just this side of her face.

Safe. She hadn't gotten far.

Shouldn't have worried. Kid was smart enough to stay close.

Even if she had run off that one time.

He shook his head at the thought, looking out over the lawn. The cold made the air clean and sharp, but he paused.

_Was that rustling in the bushes? Was that the sound of footsteps, the click of magazines sliding into guns?_ He could almost smell it, almost hear it, almost see them—blending like shadowy wraiths in the past and into the present.

_Was that a soft growl in the night—the animal, always stalking him? Waiting for him to let his guard down, always waiting_

He shifted Kylee in his arms slightly, readying himself, even as he realized the sounds were empty, the thoughts from the past—the fear, the suspicion unfounded.

This time.

Was he shivering? He almost felt like he should be shivering—but he wasn't. It wasn't cold enough. Not cold enough to keep a new bead of sweat from dripping down his hairline and into his eyes.

Something wet dripped onto his arm and he looked down; Kylee's eyes were open, and clear tear-marks marked their way down her face. Her eyes didn't waver he met them.

"Stormy's dead," she said, her voice uncharacteristically expressionless.

Logan wasn't prepared for her to say it flat out, but the words served to bring him back, though from where he couldn't say. He didn't respond at first, but took a deep breath, lifting an arm to wipe his forehead. Kylee took the opportunity to continue, her voice small.

"Everyone goes away."

Logan looked at her; he wasn't one to lie to a kid, but he sure as hell didn't know how to talk to her about this.

Especially not right now.

"Storm ain't dead," he snapped, but then stopped when Kylee flinched. He breathed in through his teeth, willing the straining string in his chest to relax just a hair; it felt like it was ready to snap. "We just gotta find her, kid."

"They said Mr. Scott weren't dead either," Kylee said softly. "Never found him, just disappeared. Same with th'professor. Just gone. Everyone leaves." She blinked, new tears dripping down her face. "You leaving too, Wolvie?"

"Don't think ya gotta worry about that. Figure I'll never kick it." But his words instantly brought back the faces—dead, pale, withered with years.

If he'd been around as long as Rogue made it sound, who knew how much more time he had? Wasn't like he'd aged a day the last 15 years.

He'd already seen so many dead, even in his recent memory. Too many violent deaths, too much blood. Too much pain and fear and running.

But that wouldn't be the worst, would it? It'd be the days, the years. Watching the kids grow up. Watching them age. Watching Rogue's hair grow white all the way through, and Kylee become bent with age as he stood there, watching all of them as they turned into dust. Watching—unmoving, unchanging.

How many times had he seen it happen already? Would he ever remember?

Did he even want to?

"Wolvie?"

Logan inhaled sharply, snapping out of the stupor that had stopped him in his tracks just inside the kitchen door.

He cleared his throat, adjusting her in his arms as he moved forward again. "'S nuthin'," he said shortly.

He padded into the house and up the stairs, silent on the new carpet following the length of the hall—passing by three deep gashes in the dark wood on the wall that no one had gotten to patching up yet.

From the attack on the mansion, or after Bloodscream? Logan couldn't remember.

His bare feet crossed shadows and streams of moonlight from the broad windows, passing Jean and Scott's room, the door closed as usual: the room unclaimed. No one had ever gotten around to clearing it out.

Logan stepped over a stream of faint blue light from Storm's room; he hadn't closed it all the way when he'd looked there for Kylee. He could still smell her, but already fading.

He nudged Kylee's door open with his foot, stepping over a tangled blanket on the floor and careful not to step on the crayons fallen next to a spread of colorful pictures. He pushed aside a stuffed animal with his foot to have space to step next to her bed. He set her down, pulling the covers up over her arms; the winter chill was evident even in here.

Big mansions were plenty drafty, no matter how fancy they looked.

"Wolvie—" Kylee began, reaching out to catch his arm as he began to pull back.

"Jus' go t'sleep, kid."

"Wha' 'bout Stormy?"

Logan frowned, standing in shadow as he straightened up. "Ain't any kinda hell that can keep me from findin' her."

The kid nodded, pulling her arm back under the covers. Trust colored her sleepy eyes as she finally settled back into the blankets. Logan took a step to the door, but her voice spoke up again. "Don' go."

Logan pushed a collection of toys from the couch in the corner of the room and eased himself into them; his bones felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. "Ain't goin' anywhere, kid."

He sat there, staring into the darkness as the kid's luminescent eyes slid shut and she drifted back to sleep.

It was only about fifteen minutes later when Wolverine shut Kylee's door behind him silently. He padded down the hall, his feet quiet on the thick carpet.

He walked past the entryway, glancing down the stairs, and paused. A shadow flickered across the moonlight streaming in from the windows—a glimpse of a yellow coat.

Jubilee Lee. What was she doing up?

'_More happened there than them just sitting in a pen waiting for you to come save them, Wolverine. You should know that better than anyone.'_

Reyes' words came back to him, loud and clear, and Logan felt a chill pass over him at the memory of Alkalai Lake.

What had they done to the kid?

He could smell her, sitting down there—unmoving. Probably holding her breath, afraid that he would catch her up and about.

Afraid.

What had they done? Sure, he'd smelled the soldiers on all the kids, but none of them had been hurt beyond a few scrapes and bruises. As far as he figured, none of them had been touched besides chucking them in that hole.

So what, then?

She was scared of him, more than anything since they'd escaped.

What had Styker told her? Shown her?

What did she know?

He turned, lighting up a cigar. The familiar scent and action helped him ease up a hair as he grounded himself even more firmly in the now. He felt her eyes on his back, watching him. He moved on, letting her continue her late-night vigil, and him continue his.

-----------------

Restless or not, Logan couldn't deny how tired he was. He ended up back in his room and fell back onto his bed, not bothering with the covers as he stared at the shadowed ceiling above him. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes, and he frowned.

Headaches? Really? He couldn't remember the last time he had this kind of lingering headache. Nah—maybe he could. That one time he'd been lobbed out of an airplane at full altitude. Had a headache for a good week, that time.

But falling out the window on the 20th floor was nothing compared to that.

_Somethin' ain't right._

He'd been tracking down his past for years now. Tried meditation—all that chi crap, introspection: the whole nine yards. Hadn't mattered. The best he'd been able to get was a memory of the room, of that tank, and of fire eating over his bones until he didn't _want_ to remember any more.

Dreams, though. Dreams had been more . . . helpful, if you can call them that. He'd wake up sometimes with feelings, faces—almost enough to be memory. Woke up and grabbed at them, trying to hold onto them before they slipped away with sleep. It'd never worked, though. The harder he'd tried, the more it'd slip through his fingers like water.

_But something was changing._

It was inside him, growing. Had been for some time, but it was getting too much to ignore. Like shattered glass, shifting and cutting every time he moved. Like broken shadows, whispering in the back of his mind.

Muttering of fear and hate and rage. Gibbering like madness, only to quiet when he turned his attention to it.

It was there, and he felt like if he just looked a little closer, listened a little more carefully, he would _remember_.

A cold wind pushed against the window, and the mansion creaked distantly, settling in its deep foundations. Logan looked up sharply, listening intently, his heart thudding.

He looked down at his palms, then closed them into fists as he shut his eyes and turned towards the darkness.

When he'd woken up . . . he'd been standing, heart thudding, ready for a fight. Not afraid, though. _Calculating. Impatient. _On edge, tense—ready to pop his claws and shred anything in sight.

Had felt the same way when he'd been out with Rogue. Undercover work wasn't something he'd gotten fluent with over the last few years, but stepping into that role when they'd been tracking down Bloodscream had felt like second nature. Had wiped the place of their fingerprints without a second thought, no matter that it wasn't likely that they'd be dusting the place down. It'd been natural, practiced. Whether she'd noticed it or not, Rogue'd fallen into the same pattern.

He really_ had _known this Carol Danvers character, hadn't he? And in some way, a part of him still recognized that.

He tried to picture her face behind his eyelids—_Carol_, not Rogue. He saw her through a haze of blood and pain as she pulled him out of his face-plant to the concrete, slamming him onto his back as she pulled back a fist, her blonde hair falling around her face.

"_I don't like people sneaking up on my teammates, hairy!"_

_But then she'd seen his face. Shock had passed over her own—eyes widening. Her fist sinking—surprise making her guard drop for that one vital second as Rogue dove at her, catching her face with her bare hands. Shock turned to pain, and then she was gone._

Logan shook his head, going back to her face as she recognized him. Shock, but along with that, something else. She'd been glad to see him. If Rogue hadn't touched her, her next move probably would have been to haul him back onto his feet and grab him in a hug, pounding him on his back.

He could see her face—concerned, lecturing him to sit down, to let himself heal, even though he'd never seen those expressions on that stranger's face that he somehow knew so well.

_Could see her, sitting across from him in some candlelit hut. Could hear the crickets, feel the humidity on his skin as he watched her disassemble her guns, cleaning each part with practiced, fluid movements._

Vietnam? No—this was before that. Rogue had said that he had had his own platoon in 'Nam. _Bombed to hell_.

Faces danced across the back of his eyelids—warping, bending in shadows, floating just out of sight, out of memory . . . .

"_CAPTAIN!"_

"_Get down!" Logan snarled, grabbing the soldier in front of him and pulling him down as the planes passed overhead once again. Machine gun fire sprayed around them, cutting into the dirt, the brush, the trees. Shattered wood sprayed through the air, cutting any exposed skin. They covered their heads, knowing full well that it wouldn't do any good if they took a direct hit. Logan hissed, reaching down and digging one of the three bullets he'd bit out of his thigh while the private beside him looked up at the sky._

_The shooting passed—the plane roaring up to turn around for another pass. Logan grabbed the soldier's collar, pulling him to his feet as he hollered at his other men to get to their feet, to keep moving._

_Some of them didn't get back up. He didn't have time to check to see who it was._

_Had to save his other boys. Get some of them out of there alive, get back to base._

_Logan pushed past two soldiers, taking the lead. They ran low, half-bent. Logan had to turn more than once as he caught the whiff of a mine beneath the ground—he pointed at it as he passed, passing the word along to his men._

_The roar grew louder._

_Roaring, roaring. The young soldier next to him was coughing—choking on his own lungs as he screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and over all of it was the roaring, the screaming as the world exploded around them, burning them to white nothing but pain pain pain pain as he tried to pull himself together, to fight, but he couldn't move. Fire ate through his pores and dug into his wrists like claws, ripping open his veins as if to bleed him to death. He writhed, falling to the ground, but he was cold. Cold as fire ate at him, slicing through his spin, paralyzing him as the cold seeped into his fingers, into his gut, freezing him stiff . . . ._

"_Staff, those braces can only keep the incisions open for so long, you know."_

"_Yes, doctor. The flesh is actually forming around the clamps, here. Amazing."_

"_Then work _faster_, man."_

"_Yes, sir."_

"_Computer indicates leakage of semen and marrow into the intracellular fluids."_

"_You heard the computer, boys. We're losing goop here. Keep those holes plugged."_

_Something was _moving _inside his wrist—like claws, picking away at his flesh, prying it away from his bones._

"_Give me a right stem . . . short fiber."_

_Agony arced down his arms, and he screamed in agony as it drilled into his wrist. He strained to pull away, but he couldn't. Couldn't even twitch a finger._

"_Ughhhh . . . ."_

"_Good God! He's coming around!"_

"_Don't get jumpy, professor. We have to keep him floating so we can trace the relay flux in his nervous system."_

"_Do you mean . . . he's _conscious_?"_

_Logan choked, but all that came from his throat was a weak gasp of air. Unfeeling eyes looked at him and shrugged._

"_Yeah—partly. Add two pheno-B, staff."_

"_Yes, doctor."_

"_So he can _feel_ what we're doing to him?"_

"_Most of it, yeah. Poor geezer's in a lotta pain."_

"_Pain is a principal of life, Doctor Cornelius."_

"_Yeah, sure."_

"_Not that I subscribe entirely to the dictum."_

_Pain spazzed down his side, into his skull, cutting through his brain. He screamed, pounding on the inside of his skull as he managed to turn his head to the side, his bare skin sticking with sweat to the cold metal table. "Uhhh uhh."_

"_Four phenol-B, staff. And keep him from shaking, willya?"_

"_Yes, sir."_

"_Readings, Hines."_

"_Sensory cortex monitor is overloaded, sir. There are no readings."_

_. . . . _

Logan woke up, huddled on the floor at the foot of his bed in fetal position—his knees to his chest and his fingers digging into his hair. A gasped sob broke through his teeth and he bit it off, choking on a whimper as he rolled over onto his knees. He rested his forehead against the bare, cold floor, panting as he clutched his head.

_Oh, God. Oh, God, no._

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to forget as tears washed down his face.

_Forget himself, naked and helpless as they picked him apart._

He raised his head slightly, eyes wild as he grabbed at his right forearm—right where his claws were encased in his arms.

_THEY DID THIS._

Memory of pain shot down his spine and he clenched his fists, grabbing his head again.

_Professor._

_Doctor Cornelius._

He could almost still smell them.

_People. People with names, faces, drinking coffee and joking as they watched him, picked at him, _owned_ him._

The feelings that encompassed him—buffeting him in its wild currents—were beyond words, beyond description—just a soulless, wild void that screamed, swallowing him, tearing into him . . . .

Rage twisted his gut, choking him. Red ate at the edges of his vision as his fingers dug into his skull, as something horrible clawed inside him, demanding to be let out.

_No—the students. The kids. Couldn't . . . _

He struggled to his feet, forcing his claws back into his forearms from where they had crept into his knuckles. He slammed the door open, staggering down the hallway. His footsteps were less than silent as he half-ran down the hall, down the stairs, slamming a fist against the elevator panel. He staggered inside, falling against the wall as he slid to the floor, grabbing his head.

_Think. Think. Thinkthinkthink._

Too much. Wasn't going to make it.

The doors opened with a _ding_, and he bolted forward, his bare feet cold on the floor. The metallic lights strangled his sanity, and he pushed into the Danger Room, slamming his fist against the control panel and locking it tight just as the darkness claimed him.

TBC . . .


	42. I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died

Wow. I really hadn't realized how long it'd been since I updated. I knew that I'd not been writing as much as usual (which usually happens for me during the summer), but looking at what I've put together . . . I actually have 65,000 words for this story written and just stuck in various files, waiting to be put together like a puzzle.

Hopefully that won't take too much time. Sometimes the puzzle-piecing and editing takes longer than just the writing.

So yeah—sorry for the long break. I've gotten some emails and reviews—concerned or just wondering—and it's nice to know that I've been missed. :) Thank you all for your support.

Anyway, here's the next chapter. Sorry if you have to read back a bit to get back into the story. Hopefully I didn't lose my touch in my long break.

Enjoy!

* * *

I heard a fly buzz when I died;  
The stillness round my form  
Was like the stillness in the air  
Between the heaves of storm.

The eyes beside had wrung them dry,  
And breaths were gathering sure  
For that last onset, when the king  
Be witnessed in his power.

I willed my keepsakes, signed away  
What portion of me I  
Could make assignable,-and then  
There interposed a fly,

With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,  
Between the light and me;  
And then the windows failed, and then  
I could not see to see.

-Emily Dickenson

* * *

Chapter 42: I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died

* * *

_Now:_

A fly buzzed by Wolverine's ear and he twitched, shaking his head slightly without lifting his cheek from the ground. The fly was insistent, though, and he swatted at it with a hand blindly before opening his eyes with a soft growl.

_Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . . _

_SMACK!_

Logan lifted his hand from the squashed fly and raised his head with a soft groan, but then cut off abruptly as his eyes widened.

Not two feet from where he lay was the unmistakable head of a tyrannosaurus rex.

He jerked onto his knees—wheeling slightly as blood rushed from his head—not believing his eyes as he saw the clearing was covered with dead dinosaur after dead dinosaur.

Tendrils of rage brushed over his mind, sending a chill of madness over the fog of his thoughts as something far, far away laughed in the darkness.

He'd done it. Finally, completely, utterly snapped.

He was in some kind of jungle—hot and muggy, and only worse because of the blood.

It covered everything—painted the slashed trees scarlet, splattered across the dirt—even thick on Logan's sleeping sweats.

But it was the blood that clicked the memories into place.

Logan gasped, choking slightly as he remembered. He leaned forward, using his hands to keep from keeling forward.

The nightmares. The loss of control. Staggering to the Danger Room.

Some kids must've decided to have some fun and create some kind of Jurassic Park simulation, and he'd gone and killed off the whole guest list. If the ugly lizards hadn't been extinct already, they sure were now. From the look of it, Wolverine had even clawed out of the dead rex's gut. Its innards were strung out over the ground, and Logan was sticky with goop and blood.

But that was it—blood didn't smell right in the Danger Room. Not the fake blood, anyway. Sure, there was copper, a hint of bitterness—but the complexity wasn't there. No faces to the blood, no messages hidden within the seeped scarlet.

Still stank like hell, though.

He could smell his own, too—real above the created. Not gallons, but enough that he could still feel the burning of already-invisible wounds.

_Rogue'd disabled the safety settings the day before. Must've forgotten to turn them back on._

The thought was swept away, though, by a wave of rage and sickness as images screamed into his head. Before he could fight it, he leaned forward, throwing up and mixing real bile with the fake blood around him.

He pulled back, spitting to try and get rid of the vile aftertaste. He coughed, gagging, but managed not to make a repeat of the mess as he focused on breathing through his mouth.

He stood with a muttered curse, wiping his forehead. He felt clammy and cold despite the heat.

Was this what it felt like to be sick?

"End program," he rasped, and the dinosaurs faded into nothing. He moved unsteadily towards the door, a hand pressed against his head.

* * *

"Woooolver-_ine_!" Jubilee called, standing in the entryway and raising her voice so it echoed down the wooden halls and up to the upper story.

"Jubes, what's wrong?" Paige wondered, coming in through the front door and closing it behind her.

"Nothing. It is wrong to just want to talk to one of your 'professors'_?_" Jubilee scoffed at that idea. "Hey, _Wolverine_!"

"Well, it's Saturday. He's probably sleeping off last night's bar run."

"Hel-_lo_?" Jubilee said, staring at the blond mutant as if she were playing stupid on purpose. "Wolverine? Healing factor? I think that applies to alcohol, genius."

Paige rolled her eyes, but Jubilee ignored her, blowing a gum bubble as she stomped up the stairs. Paige followed her, openly curious. Jubilee ignored her.

She threw open the double doors blocking off the teacher's wing to see Wolverine sitting on the floor just outside his door—his shoulders hunched, a half-empty bottle in his hand, and one hand pressed against the side of his head, mussing his hair which was still-damp from a recent shower. He didn't lift his head, but just breathed out a lungful of smoke that floated up to hang over his head like a storm cloud. Paige stopped, wary at the sight.

"Healing factor my _foot_. If he doesn't have a hangover, I don't know what one looks like," she hissed under her breath.

Jubilee ignored her, stepping forward boldly. She had no doubt that the man was intentionally ignoring them; he had to have heard Paige's whisper clear as anything. She stopped a good ten meters away—well out of his lunging distance from a sitting position, she was sure, and spoke up.

"How can you stand that? I thought you had enhanced senses, or something," Jubilee said boldly. Paige stared at her as if she'd gone half-crazy and excused herself to a safer distance (down the stairs with a hesitant, "I'll catch you later").

Logan glanced up with a bloodshot, squinted glare: his face as pale as she had ever seen it. He tilted his head back against the wall, breathing out a long draw in a stream towards her. Jubilee made a face, recoiling back from the cloud of smoke.

"Hey, watch it! Ever heard of secondhand smoke?"

He stood—not wanting to look up to her from his sitting position, no doubt. His movements were slow, though—heavy as he really was. He swayed on his feet slightly—his eyes shadowed behind his hair. "Teacher's wing—hardly anyone left t'kill," Logan said, his voice rough enough to border on a growl. "What dy'a want, kid?"

Jubilee swallowed, but she wasn't about to let her courage leave her now. "I need a ride," she announced boldly.

He squinted up at her again. "Ask 'Crawler."

"_He's_ busy in the office. You know, trying to keep this school running? It's not like this place pays for itself."

Logan didn't react to her tone—not even another glare. He covered his eyes as if to block out the flat light of the hallway. "Rogue? Colossus? Drake?"

"Catching up with her college work she's missed the last couple days, AWOL, AWOL," Jubilee listed, counting each off on her fingers. "And not that you care, but I think Peter's off with Kitty. Bobby could be anywhere, but it's not like I'd trust him to drive anyway. And I would have bugged Beast if not for the fact that he's stuck in the medical wing. You _do_ realize that I would have checked all these before coming to you, right?"

Logan glanced at her, his bloodshot eyes making him look even more fierce than usual. "Yeah, whatever," he said. He grimaced, his hand going briefly to his forehead before dropping to his side. He moved towards her, but Jubilee forewent her reaction to flatten herself against the wall and stood her ground, folding her arms. He moved around her anyway, but knocked against her shoulder as he passed.

Jubilee rubbed her shoulder where he'd bumped up against her—felt like running into a brick _wall_—but didn't give up so easily.

"So?" she pressed, following him down the hall. Wolverine didn't answer. "So, you giving me a ride?"

"Get real, kid."

Jubilee gritted her teeth, her eyes narrowing in irritation. "Listen, mister. It's not like I'm all, like, _bubbles and giggles _to go with you either, but I promised Storm, okay?" Wolverine stopped dead in his tracks, staring ahead intensely, even though there was nothing at the end of the hall but a big picture of some lake—hardly worth any such attention. "Are you drunk?" Jubilee wondered out loud, starting to question her own reasoning from just a minute before.

Logan didn't answer, but moved forward again. Jubilee trailed him at a safe distance, but at the bottom of the stairs he turned and frowned at her. "What're you playin' at, Lee?"

Jubilee scowled. "I just need a ride."

"Yeah? Where's the fire?" Beat. "I ain't wastin' my time taking you shoppin', kid."

"I'm not a complete idiot, Wolverine." Even if he did think she was—she could see it in his eyes whenever he looked at her.

"Where're you needing to go?"

Jubilee's mouth closed at that, but Logan looked back at her steadily. She sighed long-sufferingly. "Okay, fine," she said grudgingly. "I need to go to see Dr. Reyes."

Logan pulled his cigar from his mouth, suddenly sober and alert. He breathed in, and Jubilee glared at him. "Why?" he said.

"Uh, _well_—"

"Doc was just here yesterday," he interrupted. "Why'd you not catch her then?"

"Because I was in class," she said as if he were particularly dense.

"What's your deal with her?" he pressed.

Jubilee hunched in her coat. "None of your business," she snapped. "You taking me or do I have to walk?"

Logan turned and growled—no words formed from the sound, and he grabbed his coat from where it had been flung over the banister at the foot of the stairs. He headed towards the garage without a word.

"Okay, then," Jubilee said, and followed him out.

* * *

They drove in silence the entire way.

Logan was almost grateful for the distraction. Didn't like the kid, but wondering about what the hell was going on with her helped keep him focused. He didn't feel like he was going to fall apart like last night, but there was no knowing.

Didn't know what was going on, but he couldn't afford to lose it now. Not with Storm missing, Rogue like she was, the team leaderless again. He had to hold it together.

Doctor's visit. From the sound of it, this wasn't the first one, either. Kid refused to say another word about it, and she didn't smell sick. Not even a sniffle.

No odd scent, besides her usual aura of sugar, which was punctuated even more strongly by the gum she was blowing bubbles with as she looked out the window. She hadn't looked at him once since they'd gotten in the car.

Reyes had said she'd visited with some students after Alkali Lake. This had to be more of the same, even months after the fact.

Logan inhaled again. No lingering traces of blood or pain—no antiseptics, not even a hint of Tylenol in her sweat. She'd been showing up to training sessions for weeks, and even if she'd avoided him, he couldn't remember her acting hurt in any way.

And it wasn't like Storm would've let her, if something _was_ wrong.

"Would you stop that? It sounds like you've got a cold, but I _know_ you can'tget sick, so just quit it, okay?" Jubilee said, with all of her 13-year-old indignation.

Still afraid. Despite her growing attitude and resentfulness rather than her earlier cowering, the fear was still there—just hidden. Controlled. Turned into anger and defiance.

"You gonna tell me what's goin' on?"

"What's wrong, _Wolvie_? You worried about me?" she mocked.

Logan bared a canine at her, and her expression faltered, but she covered it up by turning to look out the window. She swallowed, rubbing her palms on her pants.

Logan gritted his teeth, swallowing the rage that had unaccountably risen at her mocking tone. He pulled the car to a sharp stop outside the hospital, not even bothering putting it into neutral.

"When d'ya need to be picked up?"

"Don't worry about it," Jubilee grumbled, grabbing her shoulder bag and kicking open the door.

"Watch it," Logan snapped.

She rolled her eyes, climbing out and slamming the door behind her.

Jubilee pushed into the office and plopped down in the worn couch in the corner. She slumped down, throwing her head back and pulling her pink sunglasses down over her eyes.

"Well, I did it. So we done here or what?"

Cecilia Reyes looked up from the file she'd been perusing and closed it. "Well hello to you too, Jubilee. And yes, I'm fine. How nice of you to ask." She glanced up at the clock. "You're early."

"Thought it would take more time to convince him." She said, sitting forward and pushing up her glasses to sit on the top of her head. "Took like two minutes. He was _out_ of it today, or something. Either way, I asked him and he took me."

"Did you talk?"

Jubilee snorted, popping a bubble she'd blown. "That wasn't part of the deal.

"Listen, I know what you saw was difficult—"

Jubilee cut her off with a laugh. "We've covered this, already. I mean, I know he's part of the team and I've gotta deal with that—cool. But you can't ask me to ignore _that_."

"I think it's impressive he's come so far."

"You only _think_ he's come so far. I tried to tell Ororo this weeks ago, after the whole Bloodscream thing. Something happened. Something's happen_ing_. I don't know what, but something's different, and it's just getting worse."

"We've talked about Wolverine, Jubilee. This is about _you_."

"I know, whatever," Jubilee said, losing energy and flopping back against the couch. "See, I'm cool. I'm not scared of him, not mad at him—yeah, he's a victim, whatever."

"You're very convincing."

Jubilee pulled her sunglasses back down over her eyes.

"Nobody made Mr. Summers go through all this mess," she grumbled.

"Scott didn't have troubles sitting at the same table as Logan," Reyes said, her tone softening slightly.

Jubilee grinned despite herself. "You should have come over more often."

"And he wasn't in the mistaken belief that he was barely more than a trained killing machine."

Jubilee quickly sobered at that. "It's not like he didn't worry. Besides, he didn't see . . . _that_." Cecilia couldn't see the shadows that fell over Jubilee's eyes because of her glasses, but she knew they were there.

"Listen, we done?" Jubilee asked after a pause. "Storm's deal said today was the last appointment. You wanted me to cope. I'm coping. It was never about actually _liking _him."

Cecilia sighed. "I think he's an interesting case, for sure. You don't think _he_ would consider . . . ?"

Jubilee laughed outright at that. "Therapy? Or, sorry—'just talking.' Are you kidding? It was weird enough when he started writing in that journal of his."

Cecilia perked up at that. "He has a journal?"

Jubilee nodded, snapping her gum in her mouth. "I know, right? Started it some months ago. Nobody has even been able to get a peek." She wasn't about to mention the pool of money that was going towards whatever suicidal student could get a hold of it. It wouldn't even be that hard—Kylee had let it slip that he kept it under his mattress, of all obvious places. It was just that nobody had worked up the courage (stupidity) to stroll in and grab it.

"What do you think is in it?"

Jubilee thought for a moment—an unusual thing for the usually chatty girl—then shrugged. "Memories or something? I dunno." Would make sense. She wondered how he had so much to write about, though—last time she had glimpsed it the thick book had been more than half full.

But that was probably the safest answer to give the doctor that would keep her from being overanalyzed again. Jubilee had thought of lots of possibilities.

She could see him profiling the kids—keeping notes to make sure he kept them under his thumb . . . but then again, why would he need notes when a certain glare could make most of the kids pee their pants? He could knock half of them off in his sleep if he wanted.

Maybe he was spying for the Canadian government. Or even the American government, for all she knew.

Writing a book, even—_1001 Ways to Kill a Man_. Or a mutant. He'd probably already signed off on the first one years ago.

Maybe he really _was_ just writing down memories, though of what Jubilee couldn't imagine. Everyone knew he'd just been a drifter since . . . whenever.

_Maybe he's just afraid of forgetting again._

Afraid. Hard to picture the Wolverine being afraid of _anything_.

"Huh," Cecilia said, sitting back. Jubilee smirked at her, sure that the doctor had been safely distracted, and probably wouldn't be able to stop thinking about it for a good long while.

But the question remained: What _would_ Wolverine write in his journal?

* * *

Jubilee stepped out of the hospital and hit the street, heading for the bus stop a half a block down, but then stopped as she sighted the blue mustang parked at the library across the street with the familiar license plate number.

Now what would _Wolverine_ be doing at the library?

Well, he'd offered her a ride home, so what the heck? Might as well save the bus route fee—there was no knowing what kind of allowance they'd be getting with Storm gone. If Wolverine was in charge, probably nothing.

She ran to reach the crosswalk while the crossing signal made its last flash, and jogged up the stairs to push into the dusty quiet.

Jubilee wrinkled her nose at the smell, wondering vaguely how it smelled to Wolverine's nose. She didn't like him, but she had to admit—his mutation had to seriously suck sometimes.

She walked past a mom who was trying to shush her three kids and past the hushed noise of the checkout desk, keeping her eyes open.

He wasn't in the non-fiction section, or the fiction (A weird thought, but you never knew). She even did a cursory scan over the children's section, though _that_ thought made her smirk a bit.

No luck.

Had she missed him? Not likely: Wolverine would stand out like a sore thumb in this sort of place.

Even thinking of the short, hairy mutant standing among these normal people was weird. Weird to think him at a library. Totally weird to think him _reading_.

More irritated at his lack of appearance than she probably should have been, she stopped, frowning around.  
And saw the computers.

No way. But . . . hey, why not?

She scanned over the rows, and caught sight of his leather jacket first, and the fact that the two booths on each side of him were noticeably vacant.

No point in trying to sneak up. Not safe, anyway. Jubilee strolled up, set on plopping down in the empty chair beside him, but caught a glance of the screen and stopped stand-still—frozen at the sight.

Wolverine glanced back, eyes narrowing at the sight of her. He flipped over to another tab and turned.

"And what the hell're you doin' here?" he snapped, pleasant as ever.

But Jubilee didn't flinch—didn't even look at him at first. She had to pull her eyes down to focus on him, and though she opened her mouth for an expected retort—nothing came out.

She swallowed. Wolverine's expression was growing darker—but she couldn't ignore what she'd just seen.

"Who was that?"

"Who was who?" Logan demanded.

Jubilee folded her arms. "On the screen. The newspaper article."

_Cornelius: Saint or Murderer?_ the scan of the newspaper had read. But it had been the face of the man beneath the heading that had drawn her eye.

"None of yer business." But Wolverine hesitated, his face hard as steel as his eyes narrowed to mere slits. "What's yer problem, Lee?"

Jubilee peeled her eyes from the screen, making herself look at the feral mutant's eyes before her.

Was it just her, or did they look even more dangerous than usual—a little more wild?

She pulled in a conscious breath, trying to hide her reaction as he watched her, no doubt wondering why she'd suddenly gone stone-cold.

_Because_, she thought, _I saw you kill him._

TBC . . . .


	43. Alpha Male

Thanks you few-you happy few-who reviewed this last chapter! It's nice to know that I was missed. :)

I was scanning over the hits for this story after posting my last chapter—basking in the people who'd come by during my long break this summer—and was quite amused to notice that the chapters featuring clips from the past literally had hundreds more hits than the present ones.

Heh. Interesting. Well, I don't blame you. Writing Feral!Wolverine may be difficult, but it sure is interesting trying to get inside both his and Heather's brains.

So here's a past!chapter for you lot. Enjoy.

And please-oh-please-oh-please take the time to write a review-even a quick, short one. I have been known to resort to begging and am not afraid to descend so low again . . . but I'd love it if you just reviewed to show your appreciation for the time I put into this too. :)

Thanks guys! Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 43: Alpha Male

* * *

_Days passed at the cabin. Probably like four or somethin'. Started tryin' ta pay attention to that sort of thing, but I lost track a couple times. Took a nap in the middle of the day and woke up not knowing if I'd slept a day or an hour. Wasn't used to keeping time; wasn't used to it mattering._

_Heather said it mattered, though. Said with the weather clearin' up James would be back sooner—and sooner was better. I hardly remembered Mac; hardly remembered attacking him, even if it was just days before. Head hadn't been on straight. Didn't really know what it meant that he had left, or that he was coming back._

_Days were like dreaming. Too much to think of, too much to try and figure out. Felt like the more I tried to remember the more everything kept slippin' between the cracks—an' the more I really started realizin' what those gaps in my memory meant. Like lookin' down and realizin' that someone had cut off your legs and popped out yer eyes and jus' walked off, leavin' nothin' but bloodied stumps and blindness . . . and somehow you'd missed the whole damn thing. Just flounderin', tryin' ta figure out where you were, what the hell had happened, and what the hell you were gonna do now._

_Heather was the only thing that kept me from runnin' off again. It was a close call, more than once. One night I went off, sure I wasn't goin' back. Got myself a nice hare and settled down ta sleep, but the meat settled funny. Still tasted the same as always, but it sat cold in my stomach, an' all I could think of was Heather, standin' in the middle of the forest alone an' lookin' for me like she did the first time I ran off._

_Curiosity, it must've been. Part'a my mind'd been woken up, and it wasn't going back to sleep, no matter how much I wanted it to sometimes._

'_Cause as much as I liked bein' there—warm, fed, even talkin'—more than ever I realized how wrong I really was. How I wasn't gonna fit in, even tryin' t'be the best I could be._

_

* * *

_

_Then:_

Heather packed away a photo album carefully in its waterproofed wrapping and placed it in her pack. She settled on the top the last of the clothing she'd taken with her to the cabin and zipped the whole thing shut.

"Remy? Could you hand me the wool socks on the chair?"

Gambit did so, tossing her the socks and continuing watching her as she packed the large backpack.

"How much dat carry?" he wondered.

Heather looked up at him from her knees and smiled. "Forty pounds, with the bag and everything. Gotta carry everything you need up and back."

There was a heavy thud, and they both looked up.

Wolverine had pulled out a can of beans from the tower of foodstuff in the kitchen, and now was sniffing it warily. He pulled back with a frown.

"You have to open it," Heather called over at him, glancing up. "If you're hungry, I can get the can opener—"

_SNIKT!_

A single claw sliced clean through the metal, taking the top third of the can right off; beans spilled over the sides of the remaining can. Wolverine scrambled to catch the dripping liquid with his hands, but half of it ended up on the floor anyway.

Gambit chuckled. "Nice goin', canucklehead. If it's full, you gotta chop closer t'de top so it doesn't spill out all over da place."

Wolverine looked up from licking his fingers, glowering.

"Remy, lay off Wolverine," Heather chided, standing from the floor and pulling out a towel from the drawer as she came towards Logan to help him. He stepped back—a single claw still popped as he held his hands before him.

"Heh. Wolvie, you fired."

Wolverine's eyes narrowed.

"Here," Heather said ignoring the young Cajun as she took the can from Wolverine's hand and set it on the counter. She took his hands, helping him wipe the most of it from where it had fallen over his forearm. Wolverine hadn't moved, warily watching her, his hands gone still.

"Thanks," he said in his soft, now familiar rumble. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Heather assured him, but then paused as the light caught sight of the single claw stuck out from the back of his hand, right between his metacarpals.

Heather hadn't seen one so close, or even with him holding still. She couldn't help but pause, tilting her head slightly as she looked at the length. It was gleaming—flawless, like it'd been molten right into the shape. No scratches, no marks, save for a small stream of sauce and a single bean that was sliding down its edge. Her eyes followed its length, seeing the small beads of blood that had swelled around the blade where they had broken his skin before he had healed. No nicks or dulling around the blade's edge—even after slicing through the can as if it were butter, and who knows what other abuse he had taken over the time he had run wild in the wood.

Wolverine pulled back, looking disgruntled at her close observation, but Heather raised her hand.

"Wait, wait," she said softly. He hesitated, and she gently rested her palm on top of his wrist. He let her turn his hand slightly. Light reflected off the blade, dancing on her face.

It was beautiful, flawless—so carefully carved that it was almost a work of art.

Yet at the same time, it was hard—the edge unforgiving and mechanical—almost as if whoever had shaped it had wanted it to look as inhuman and cold as possible.

_SNAKT!_

The blade vanished so sharply that she started slightly, and Wolverine pulled away from her, not catching her eye. He wiped off his hands and bent down, grabbing a wad of paper towels to wipe up the beans that had fallen onto the floor.

Heather bit her lip, pulling back her hand.

"Sorry," she said, though she wasn't sure what she was apologizing for.

Wolverine shrugged his broad shoulders roughly. "Doesn't matter." He finished wiping up the mess and stuffing the wad of towels in the trash bag next to the sink.

Heather hovered, watching him.

"What were you doin' way out here anyway?" Remy asked, breaking the silence. "Don't seem like da outdoors kinda person t'me."

Heather turned back to him, picking up a pair of mittens with a last glance back at Wolverine as he pulled a spoon from the drawer, taking it carefully in hand before getting down to business with the remaining beans. "It's our second anniversary," she said, unable to keep a bit of melancholy from her voice. "We're strapped for cash right now—we were going to just stick close to home. But then Mac's supervisor offered to let us come to the cabin—all stocked and everything; it was an opportunity we couldn't pass up."

"Anniversary and you stuck out here wit' us? Dat sucks," Remy opined.

Heather couldn't help but smile at that. "Oh, it's not half so bad." She tossed Wolverine a lightweight backpack and slid some packages of food towards him. "Crackers, and enough beef jerky to make a normal man sick. Pack it up and keep save it for the ride, okay?"

Wolverine picked up the backpack and eyed it uncertainly until Heather reached over and showed him how the zipper worked. He zipped the tab back and forth a couple times before opening it and packing away the packages of jerky and a box of Wheat Thins with an almost absurd care. But then he stopped, glanced at her, and before she could react he'd ripped open one of the bags of jerky and stuffed a large piece in his mouth.

"_Wolverine_!" Heather protested.

Remy chuckled. "Chere, you know da way to a man's heart."

Wolverine swallowed the large chunk with some difficult and smiled wolfishly at her.

The sight of it made Heather's heart clench. So far all she'd seen on his face was varying levels of alarm, confusion, disgruntlement, and wary observation. The smile only lasted a fraction of a second before it vanished, but it left her feeling like she'd been sucker-punched. For just that second, she swore she had seen the man he might have once been.

And after only such a short time, and him having come so far from the feral state they'd found him . . . it was nothing short of miraculous.

Wolverine picked up his spoon, returning his attention to the remaining beans in the can.

_Who are you? _she wondered, but then amended in her mind: _Who _were_ you?_

"Well, the more you eat now the less you have later—" Heather began, but then interrupted herself as Wolverine's expression changed again—his grin vanishing behind sudden, deadly seriousness. "What is it?"

Wolverine had looked away from her, growing stiff as a board, his spoon still in hand. He lowered the spoon slowly, setting it in the empty can without a sound, and straightened, his eyes fixed and narrow on the wall. Heather was sure he wasn't staring at the framed embroidered 'Deer Camp' hanging there.

"What d'ya hear, petit?" Gambit said, standing as well.

"Wolverine?"

The man started, looking sharply from the wall to her. The light flashed off his eyes in an odd way—like a wolf in the light of a flashlight—and for a moment he looked more wild than he had in days. His eyes were cold, his face hard, his fists clenched.

He bared his teeth. The feralness in his eyes scared her, and it took him an extra second to find his tongue. "Them." Even that word sounded barely human.

Gambit paled a shade. "L'infer. De soldier's?"

"What? You mean—" But Wolverine was already moving. An iron fist grabbed Heather's arm, and he dragged her away from the counter. He grabbed her coat from where it hang, shoving it into her arms. He threw open the door and pointed south.

"Run," he said. "Keep low, run far. Don't look back." He turned sharply to glare at Gambit, taking a deep breath. "Kid."

"I stay with you, Wolvie?" Remy said bravely. But his face was pale, his eyes wide, and he looked younger than his young age. He had pulled his cards from his pocket and was flipping them between his hands. His hands were shaking; he missed a couple cards and they fell to the floor. He hastened to pick them up.

"No," Wolverine shook his head quickly. He pushed them both out the door and followed, looking north. _"Go!"_

Gambit nodded in understanding. "I'll take care of her," he promised. He swallowed, smiling weakly. "Kick der butts, Wolvie." Wolverine bared his teeth, but Gambit had already turned to Heather and moved out the door. "C'mon, chere. Let's go."

Remy had caught her arm, and Heather ran, stumbling slightly as they moved off the path. "Remy, wait—" she gasped, breathless from the sudden rush. "How does he know?"

"Prob'ly heard a hel'copter," Remy said, ducking beneath a branch. Heather stopped stand-still, and Gambit looked back at her. "C'mon, we—"

"Oh . . . _crap_," Heather said, whipping around. She started running back to the cabin.

"Whoa, whoa—where're you goin'?" Gambit protested, catching at her arm. "Dere's nothin' you can do. Ain't pretty, but Wolvie can take care'a himself."

Heather pulled away, harried. "_Remy_, James was planning on coming back in a helicopter."

"Mon dieu," Remy breathed. Heather didn't bother chiding him for his language.

"Wolverine!" Heather shouted, running back towards the cabin. "Wolverine!"

They hadn't gotten far, so the sound of the helicopter was just reaching their ears as they ran towards the porch. Wolverine was standing in the clearing before the cabin, staring up at the sky. His teeth were bared, his fists clenched, and his claws gleamed coldly in the light of the sun. He whipped towards them, as they ran forward, eyes wide, but as he saw they were unhurt his expression darkened.

"No," he growled, his eyes dark as his claws withdrew into his knuckles.

"Wolverine—"

He caught her arm, grabbing the kid and pulling him down beside the porch as the helicopter cleared the trees. A heavy hand weighed Remy's head down as Wolverine covered them. They could feel him trembling—with tension or fear?—as he hunched over them. He lifted his head, his eye narrowing as the copter began to lower. He growled softly, beginning to rise.

He'd take them out as soon as they set ground.

Heather grabbed his arm. He pulled out of her grip roughly, not even glancing at her as he peered out over the patio, hunching like a cat ready to bolt out and pounce.

Heather swore. "Wolverine, listen to me. Those aren't bad men. That's James. I told you he'd be coming, and—_God, _listen to me! _Remy_, he's not understanding, is he?" Wolverine hadn't even glanced at her.

"Wolvie, dese are friends, petite. Da _good _guys_. _Here, mon ami. Why else dey be landin'? Dose men after you, dey not so stupid ta get down where you can get dem. Dey jus—dunno, bomb da whole house, or light da woods on fire, or somet'in'—"

"_Not _helpful, Remy," Heather interrupted.

"Non?" Gambit asked, glancing at her. "Look at him, chere." Wolverine had ducked back down, and though he was still watching the arrivals closely, his fists clenched, he had relaxed a hair. He looked wary now—a hint of humanity creeping back into his eyes. "Wolvie's a smart one. He know somethin' not right. He know good as Remy dat dey would do jus' dat. Burn da whole forest down. Whoever after him not da most stealthy kind a'people."

The helicopter had landed, and two men climbed out, dark clothed and military type.

Wolverine had pulled back, crouched uncertainly, but he stiffened at the sight of the men.

Uniformed. One was packing at least one gun. Walked like he knew how to fight.

"It's all right," Heather said, but not without a hint of relief to her voice as she stood. Gambit glanced at Wolverine, who had glanced at Heather before looking back at the men, his expression still dangerous, but considering. He must've been able to smell the previous doubt in her scent. "I told you it was them. James!"

One of them turned at the sound of her voice. "Heather? What are you doing over there?" he asked, pulling off a helmet and moving forward. Heather ran towards him, and he caught her in a hug, swinging her around.

Wolverine had been watching attentively, but at that he gave a low growl.

Remy gave him an odd look. "Jealous, mon ami?" he asked. He gave a low chuckle. "Didn't think about dat."

Wolverine didn't even glance at him, hunching forward again. He leaned a hand against the porch, peering over. Heather and James were talking, but too softly for Remy to hear as he knelt next to Wolverine, his dark eyes mirroring him. Wolverine's eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring as if trying to catch a scent of the man from a distance as he tilted his head slightly.

Remy glanced at him. "You eavesdropping? You know, dat not very polite, 's dey say." Right under Remy's nose, the tips of three gleaming blades slid from under Wolverine skin, but didn't come all the way out. The tips stayed there, barely visible from the knuckle, but ready. Remy pulled back a bit warily. "Ulgh," he said. "Dat jus' look gross, petit," he said, staring at the shape of the metal claws which was visible beneath his skin between his metacarpals. He looked back up, and there was a moment of silence. "He not gonna hurt her, Wolvie," he said softly.

James turned at gestured to the other uniformed man, who nodded and climbed back into the copter, shutting the door.

"Remy, Wolverine! Come on out."

"Well, dat da go-ahead," Remy said, looking at him. "We gonna go?"

Wolverine didn't move at first, but then seemed to make his mind about something and stood suddenly. He hardly seemed to glance in Heather's direction as he climbed onto the porch, but Remy could almost feel him assessing the new stares—challenging them by his boldness, but ready to move if they made a move for their guns. The fact that they didn't right away didn't make him relax in the slightest. He stood there, head down slightly, his hair falling loosely over his eyes as he peered out at them. His hands hung loose at his side, but Remy couldn't tell if he still had his claws already half-popped.

Remy stood up and glanced at Wolverine, then moved around to stand at the bottom of the steps. Wolverine's shadow fell on him, and he flipped through his cards absently.

"Now dis—is dis some instinct ya got, Wolvie, or you just paranoid?" Remy said under his breath. He glanced at the mutant behind him. "Hm. You could jus' take dese people out—you nervous 'cause dey people, aren't ya? Not 'cause dey got a big 'copter." He paused as Heather and James finished speaking and started towards them. Remy continued, lowering his voice further. "Ah. So here you are. Make them come ta you. Good trick. Give you da higher ground from da get-go, dat it?"

Gambit glanced back again, and Wolverine looked down at him. He frowned slightly, but then went back to watching Heather. "Dis ain't the animal world, cher. Make Heather real mad if you gon try killin' dis guy."

Wolverine snorted softly, but didn't look at him as the newly arrived man approached.

"So you're Wolverine?" James said, stopping at the bottom step. He put one hand in his pocket—the other was covered in a thick blue cast from fingers to his wrist—and looked up, smiling. "I'm glad to see you're doing so much better. When we first brought you here Heather and I assumed the worst. I'm James Macdonald Hudson, Heather's husband."

"Everyone calls him Mac," Heather said, coming to his side and putting her arm around his waist. Wolverine watched the motion with careful eyes.

"Let's get your bags," Mac said, climbing the stairs to the porch. Remy followed behind. Wolverine stepped backwards as they passed. The door closed behind them—leaving him on the porch alone. He cast one last dark glare at the grounded helicopter before pulling open the door and following them inside.

"Well, if we head now we can be back among civilization in a couple hours," the man was saying to the kid as Wolverine came in and stood with his back against the wall. "We can get you home, Mr. LeBeau. No doubt your parents are worried."

Remy shrugged noncommittally, frowning. "What about Wolverine?"

"What Wolverine does," Mac said, glancing at the feral man, "is his own decision."

Wolverine didn't move.

Remy folded his arms, in his youthful slightness looking almost ridiculous in his seriousness. "You can't jus' take him and drop him off somewhere, homme. Wolverine need some help, but da right kind. Someone after him, an dey aren't nice people."

"C'n talk for myself, kid," Wolverine muttered, bristling slightly. The man—James—looked at him out of the corner of his eye, then glanced at Heather, who just smiled. Wolverine's frown deepened, and he glared openly at him. James raised his eyebrows, but looked away. Wolverine relaxed a hair.

"But Remy does have a point," Heather said, oblivious to two men's visual exchange. "Which is why James and I —" She paused as Wolverine's eyes narrowed to slits again. "We were just thinking that you could stay with us. Remy's right—you seem healthy in both mind and body, Wolverine. You just can't remember what you're supposed to do with the things you know. You're already doing better, and we can help."

Wolverine frowned.

"I promise you, Wolvie—we'll do everything we can to find out what happened."

He looked at her—though what he was looking for, exactly, Heather couldn't say. Finally he nodded. "Fine."

Mac put his hands together. "Great. Let's grab these bags—we can get you things when we get to Vancouver, Wolverine—and head to the copter—"

"No."

James stopped, surprised at being interrupted. "What?"

"No," Wolverine repeated. "No helicopter."

"Wolverine, we have to go over the mountains. It took James and me three days to hike in, and helicopter can get us back in hours," Heather explained.

"No."

Heather glanced at Gambit out of habit. "No, he understand fine," Remy assured them.

"Why not, then?" Heather asked Wolverine.

Wolverine glanced at James.

Remy looked at Wolverine, to Mac, to Heather, and paused. He smirked. "Heh. He not afraid of the 'copter, mes ames. Not like a little fall hurt him. He don't want Heather gettin' in, does he?" Gambit spoke up, dark eyes amused.

"You know, it would probably help him talk more if you didn't translate for him all the time," James said, then paused. "How do you do that, anyway?"

"Ain't so hard once you get ta know him," Remy said, waving his hand slightly as he reached down to pick up his coat from where it was slung over the couch arm and pulled it on.

"Well," Heather said, picking up her loaded bag with a soft grunt. "I am _not_ going to get hurt, Wolverine. And I'm going in the helicopter one way or another. If you boys want to walk, that's fine." She glanced at Wolverine, who still hadn't moved, and nodded at his bag where it still sat on the counter. "Don't forget your snacks. So, you coming?"

Heather turned for the door, not waiting. Wolverine looked up at James, then stalked forward, snatching the backpack off the counter, and after a couple awkward tries figured out how to pull on the backpack. He shrugged, then headed out the door.

"_Tank_ you," Remy breathed as he followed him out. "Remy did _not_ want ta walk 'cross Canada again."

Wolverine hesitated on the porch as they passed him, his thumbs looped in the backpack straps as he stood straight and looked into the woods—the wind from the helicopter whipping his wild hair and the too-long pajama pants that dragged slightly in the dirt.

Heather stopped, glancing back at him, and he stepped down the stairs, padding with his bare feet across the muddied ground towards the helicopter.

Mac was already waiting at the copter, watching him.

Heather ducked down from the blades, but James noticed Wolverine didn't even glance at the rotating blades.

He'd been around helicopters before.

With one last glare at the two soldiers back with them, and the pilot, and one last glance back at the woods, Wolverine climbed aboard.

TBC . . .


	44. Catch Me When I'm Lying

Busy week again, so I'm just dropping this chapter off in a hit and run. It is a bit longer than last chapter, so hopefully it's a bit more satisfying in that respect. :)

I got a great bunch of reviews last chapter, guys. Thank you so much! Even if you don't know what to say, I'm kind of trying to boost up my review count on this site (generally people are more drawn towards stories with more reviews). So please, one way or another . . . review! You could tell me your favorite scene from the story so far, where you think it might be heading, what you would like to see, or just say if you liked the chapter or not. Anything helps! Besides, reviews are the big things that help me get the energy to write the next chapter between the craziness of real life. :D

And last of all: enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 44: Catch Me When I'm Lying

* * *

_Now:_

_I saw you kill him._

Jubilee's mouth snapped shut and she glared at Logan, trying to ignore the black-and-white picture of a dead man that had been burned from the screen onto the insides of her eyelids. "Nothing. It's not _my _business what you're doing looking up some stupid old newspapers. _Geez_." She swallowed, trying to wet her suddenly ash-dry mouth.

Because as easily as she pretended it was to brush it off what she'd seen, it froze her solid inside.

She didn't know if they had ever told her the man's name—Cornelius, the paper said— but his bearded, neighborly face had brought it all back: the blood, the screams, the gunshots and the snarling. He'd pleaded, hadn't he? He was one of the doctors that had hid himself away—barricaded the door . . . and _he'd_ cut right through the walls to get at him. She could still hear his screams, his gasps—the sound of knives cutting through flesh and the wet smacking as pieces hit the cold asphalt as his voice strangled into nothing.

And she could see _his_ eyes—hardly visible through the mass of blood and hair and the poor quality of the old tape. But they were beyond savagery, beyond anything she could put her finger on.

Madness.

She licked her lips. Those eyes—still wild—were watching her. Waiting her out.

Could he smell lies?

She wouldn't put it past him.

Her fingers buzzed, waiting for him to call her on it.

She wasn't sure _exactly_ what sort of reaction she was expecting, but she was expecting _something_ . . . Wolverine-ish. But his expression had turned to stone. He swiveled his chair around to close the windows on the computer and log off. (She caught glimpses of headlines as they closed:_ Cornelius Flees U.S., "Mercy Killer" Quack Evades FBI, Malpractice Suits on the Rise_, and one or two more shots of the doctor.) Wolverine waited until the login screen had reappeared before standing, taking his coat from where he'd slung it over the back of his chair, and walked past her. "Follow," he said—his voice short but strangely neutral, like a robot had zapped down from space and swapped places with him.

Jubilee waited only a second before trailing after him. She realized she was shaking and folded her arms, clenching her fists to get it to stop.

He didn't look back at her, but made a beeline out of the library—past the fussing children and stressed mothers—down the stairs, and didn't slow until he reached the car and wrenched the door open. He climbed in, but Jubilee hesitated at the passenger's door, sweat making her palms slick.

She could take the bus home. Of course, that would only put off the inevitable: if Wolverine wanted her to talk, he'd track her down. Or she could take the bus somewhere else entirely. She'd lived on the streets for a few months on her own before the professor had found her; she'd be just fine on her own again. What could he do?

Well, _duh_.

He could track her down anyway. Like trying to run away would work when it came to dealing with the Wolverine.

Jubilee had reached into her pocket to cover up her delay, and now pulled out a package of gum. She pulled out two new pieces, unwrapping them and popping them in her mouth before she opened the car door and climbed in nonchalantly as possible. Never mind that Wolverine could smell her sweat just fine.

What else could he smell? Fear? Jubilee could almost feel his eyes on her before he turned the ignition and backed the car out of the parking space. She chomped down on her gum, accidentally catching her lip. The taste of blood mixed with sugar in her mouth, and she scowled.

Could he smell that? Smell her blood? Smell her anger and fear and uncertainty and what she'd had for breakfast and that she had freakin' _cramps _and that she had a crush on Warren even though he was waaay out of her league and being around him made her feel like an _idiot._

It was so _invasive_ it made her sick.

She slumped in the seat, glaring over at him.

Wolverine was glaring straight out the front window, his jaw tight beneath his sideburns. He was driving fast, but not as reckless as he usually did—distracted. She hoped he wasn't so stupid as to get them in an accident.

Tense second ticked into minutes and they counted by. Jubilee wanted to take off her coat—she was sweating beneath it all, but she already felt too exposed, so she just kept her arms crossed, stiff as a board. Wolverine's hands shifted on the steering wheel, his fingers uncurling and then tightening around the grip. His knuckles were white—but a weird white: almost grey. The metal beneath his skin? The thought didn't do anything to settle her rolling stomach.

"What did he show you?" he asked at length.

Jubilee tore her eyes away from staring at his knuckles. (Were the claws just waiting beneath the surface, barely held back from emerging?)

"Who?"

"Don't play dumb, Lee." The words were low—practically growled.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You knew that yahoo—Cornelius," Logan said. "You recognized him. The man who . . . who . . . ." He trailed off, breathing in deeply. "He was with Stryker."

Jubilee's eyes shot towards him before skittering away again. "You remember?"

Logan looked at her sharply. "No, I don't—" The hirsute man suddenly cut off with a sharp groan. One hand shot to his head, and the wheel jolted sideways.

Horns blared and Jubilee screamed, her hand shooting over to grab the wheel. They careened back out of the suicide lane (which had never seemed so well-named), and Wolverine grabbed the wheel again, but Jubilee didn't let go.

"What's wrong with you!" Jubilee screamed.

"I've got it," he snapped, squinting at her with a bloodshot gaze as he pressed a palm against the side of his head like he was trying to keep his brains from leaking out his ear.

"Yeah, _right!"_ Jubilee said, bordering on hysterical, but she let go of the wheel and fumbled for her seatbelt with shaking hands. She managed to buckle it in on her third try and gave it a tug to make sure it was secure. "What are you, crazy? Pull over!"

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, like, totally, you're fine!" Jubilee said. "Like, you're just going to pass out on the steering wheel and kill me but not yourself because _you're_ Wolverine and when did a car accident do anything to you_—so yeah! _Of course you're fine!" But at least the man was driving sane now, and didn't seem about to keel over again, though he looked pale.

Wolverine's hands were tight on the wheel, his shoulder's hunched as he stared through the window as if holding himself back from popping his claws and ripping into anything that came within arm's reach of him.

"What _was_ that?" she insisted, giving her seatbelt one more tug.

He uncurled one hand from the wheel, fishing in his pocket for a cigar. "Nothing."

"_Nothing?_ You almost _fainted_," Jubilee raved, running her hand through her short black hair and making it stand on end. Her glasses slipped against her fingers, and she fumbled to catch them and push them back up.

"I didn't faint," Logan snapped.

"What then?" Jubilee demanded, turning towards him sharply, but suddenly she went still. "Oh my gosh," she breathed, face suddenly ashen. "You _are_ remembering. You're . . . breaking down. Flashbacks, right? And you're looking up stuff you _shouldn't _remember."

"Shouldn't?" Wolverine repeated, his voice rising like a dog's hackles. "Breaking down?What the hell do you know, kid?"

Jubilee pulled back sharply at his tone, feeling sick. "It's none of your business."

"It's _not_ _my business_?" Logan repeated, ire rising. "Whose business d'ya think it is, ya crazy skirt?"

"Well, what the heck do you want me to tell you?" she said, voice rising with his. "That you're a killer? That you're a psycho animal? That you're a hairy, ugly jerk? Check the mirror!"

"Cute, kid. Real cute. That make you feel better?" Logan snarled "The doctor's _name_ might have been nice to know." Jubilee sat back violently, her jaw working furiously with her large wad of gum. Logan took a deep breath, trying to clear the senseless flash of pain and darkness ripping into his chest; the feeling still burned just behind his eyes. Yelling at the stupid kid wasn't going to help a bit. "What were you doin' with Reyes, anyway?" he asked. "You sick?"

"Why do you care all of the sudden?" Jubilee said sharply, having taken the small break to further stroke the flames instead of calm them. "Just because you _need_ me, that's all. Then what, Wolverine—you going to kill me too?"

He growled—a sharp almost-snarl before he could catch himself. "That's enough."

"Besides, you think I was just down there with those guys keeping notes? I was trying to stay _alive_. Do you _know _what they do to mutants down there?"

Logan barked a sharp, humorless laugh. "Do I know, kid? Do I _know_? Can you tell me what it's like to have your skin flayed from your bones?"

Jubilee's eyes widened as she realized what she'd said and her face drained of all remaining blood. She looked a shade green, but her stare didn't waver.

"I'm not talking about this," she said, sounding partially strangled. "I'm not." She was pulled against the door, almost as if trying to sink right through it like Kitty could. Her breath was coming fast—Logan figured she was on the verge of completely losing it, and the stink of her panic it wasn't helping him either. He slid his claws partially out of his forearms as he pulled onto Graymalkin Lane, the pain making his head clear, but it sharpened his anger until it echoed down his skeleton like a thousand hungry wolves.

He retracted his claws back sharply, pulling into the driveway. He felt hot and cold—sweat beaded on his forehead, but he felt like his chest was filled with ice. Everything was too loud, too bright—too harsh. It grated on his mind like knives on metal.

Jubilee was watching him; she may not have been in his head, but she saw enough. "You're really losing it," she said. "You've been pretending all along, but you're finally, really losing it."

Jubilee grabbed the door handle, but he reached out as if to catch her arm. "Kid—"

Jubilee recoiled back like he'd reached out to strike her. "Don't touch me," she breathed, her voice low. "Don't you ever touch me." She threw open the door and stalked into the house.

Logan sat back, turning off the car and watching as Jubilee stormed into the house and slammed the front door behind her. Her lingering scent of defiant terror stank up the car—smelled like a cat cornered by a Rottweiler. Desperate.

The dull roaring in his ears receded again, but he still rose out of the car carefully, keeping one hand on the hood, and keeping his eyes open.

Every time he closed his eyes, he could feel the shifting glass—hear the muttering voices. It was growing louder, sharper—even when he was awake.

The kid knew stuff. She'd recognized the doctor, and it had terrified her. Back to square one—months ago, when she couldn't even glance at him without smelling like vinegary terror.

He shook his head, pulling the car into the garage and shutting the doors behind him. He climbed out of the car and stalked into the mansion, rubbing his head against a lingering phantom ache.

_You're losing it._

The kid was right. He'd lost it before—he'd almost lost it just the night before.

But he couldn't lose it now. Not with Storm missing, Rogue's condition still up in the air.

_Don't touch me. Don't you ever touch me._

There was something more than hate and fear there. It was loathing. _Disgust._

Grimacing, Logan reached for the doorknob and pushed it open. He ripped off his coat and threw it in the corner, stalking up the stairs near the garage to his room.

Down the hall. Smelling his months-old blood, smeared with the scent of comings and goings and bitter cleanser—

Pain suddenly lanced through his head and Logan staggered, throwing a hand out to the wall next to his room to catch himself. Deep, unpatched claw marks marred the wood next to his hand.

_Bloodscream. Standing in the street with a bearded goliath behind him, laughing. An Asian woman hung from one of his hands, her face pale—the full moon had more color. He dropped her, her silk dress sinking around her like blood as she fell to the street, and Logan tried to get up, but his legs were broken-shards of agony as the pieces crawled back together after he'd been tossed across the street . . . . _

Logan jerked back, still staring at the claw marks as he smelled the blood of the past and the stink of Bloodscream over it all.

That woman . . . . He'd known her face, somehow. The scent of her blood burned him, but it was long in the past—lost and forgotten, until now.

He clenched his fist against the wall.

Had he failed her too?

_His legs still felt broken, splintered. He'd forgotten what that felt like—shattered into a million pieces and crawling back together . . . _

He shook his head, gritting his teeth. He had enough problems without throwing more into the mix, and the memory was already fading. He breathed in deep, focusing on the dust and smell of kids.

And then froze, the hair on the back of his neck rising.

Because not all of what he smelled was from the past. It was fresh and hot, with a strange edge of something that smelled like raw energy and fear.  
He turned with a snarl, launching forward from stillness.

He sprinted down the hall to the entryway and grabbed the railing, vaulting down to the ground floor. He twisted in the air and landed on his feet, falling into a crouch and immediately releasing his claws as he rose up.

Bloodscream's ash-pale face whipped around—a raptor catching sight of his prey. He let go of the student Wolverine had identified with the first whiff of blood, without even having to see the bright yellow coat.

Jubilee slumped to the floor—pale, too drained to do more than gasp a soft whimper.

Rage washed away any lingering disbelief at the bloodsucker's survival—washed away any thought. It was one thing for this bastard to attack him on a road, alone—it was quite another for him to come here.

It didn't matter what it took, didn't matter if it was possible or not. He just knew he was going to kill this bastard.

* * *

_Then:_

Heather rested a hand on Wolverine's arm as they took a seat. He flinched almost imperceptibly—something Heather had realized was usual for him. "It's all right," she said.

"Damn loud, dat's what," Remy said, speaking loud enough to be heard over the noise or the rotor. He glanced at Wolverine in commiseration.

They lifted off. Remy leaned over to peer out the window at the ground as it dropped away, but Wolverine didn't move—didn't even glance towards the window as they ascended. He glared at the soldier in front of him, unblinking.

The cabin dropped away into nothing, the trees blurred together at the height, and peaks and whirls of clouds rose around them in their own valleys and mountains of the sky. Remy glanced at Wolverine often at first, but when Wolverine didn't move for a good ten minutes he grew bored and just looked out the window, leaning against the helicopter's side. His eyes drooped, and within minutes he was out like a light.

"He was tired," Heather noted—more to try and draw Wolverine's attention from the soldiers than anything else. Wolverine didn't look away from the man across from him, but just grunted softly. "You could, you know, take a nap too. Might make the trip go faster." Wolverine still didn't move. "Of course not."

The copter pushed forward, course set as it made its way through the mountains. Sweat beaded on the young soldier's upper lip, and he swallowed nervously. Minutes ticked away, tense as a string ready to break. Wolverine didn't move a muscle.

"Hey, Wolverine, come on up here," Mac called from the cockpit.

Wolverine's eyes narrowed, and he glared at the soldier twice as fierce. The man's eyes widened and he put up his hands innocently. Heather rolled her eyes. "Go. I'll be fine."

Wolverine glanced at her, considered, and finally nodded slowly, undoing the straps easily and rising. Turbulence made the 'copter drop slightly, but his steps were steady as he walked up to the cockpit.

"Hey," James called, lifting his helmet and nodding to the copilot seat. "Have a seat." Wolverine did, ignoring the restraints and watching James. "Thought I'd talk to you. Heather says you're a good guy."

Wolverine didn't answer; his eyes ran over the instruments.

"You want to try?" James asked. Wolverine looked at him sharply, lifting an eyebrow.

"Flying?" he clarified.

James smiled at the response. "Sure. Anyone can do it. And I'll be right here on the controls if you need help. "

Wolverine didn't bother with the headset as he took in the displays before him. Slowly, he eased his hands onto the controls.

Fifteen minutes later, Mac was leaned back, picking at the cast around his wrist idly—his memento from his first run-in with the man beside him.

"—and so somehow Heather pulls enough strings to get me out of jail and the charges dropped," James said, leaning back before putting his hands behind his head. "That woman's a spitfire. Don't let her mild-mannered exterior fool you into thinking you can push her over."

Wolverine snorted. "Tried," he said roughly. "Didn't work. Got me fetchin' potatoes from the cellar instead."

"Sounds like Heather," James nodded, then continued. "But now I've got in with the government." He leaned forward eagerly. "Have you—no, you wouldn't have heard about the Avengers. Here, then—America put together this team of superheroes. Some mutants, some gifted—whatever. Just to help them if any special problems pop up, and—"

"Oh my God—James!"

James sat up, startled as Heather poked her head into the front. She was staring at Wolverine, who glanced at her before flipping a couple switches and then looking back.

"What?" James asked, expression innocent. Wolverine's eyes immediately narrowed, glancing between the two of them. "Problem with the flight?"

"You . . . ." Heather trailed off, still watching Wolverine flying the helicopter, but then she shook her head. "You're not already talking about that team of yours, are you?"

"Why not?" James asked. Heather raised her eyebrows at him. "Still, I hadn't got to that punch line yet." He looked at Wolverine. "So, what do you say?"

Wolverine just looked at him, his expression unreadable.

"No," Heather said. "_James_, he's not ready for that. Maybe later, but when he knows what he's getting himself into."

"Saving people's lives?" James asked. "You're already well into that already, aren't you, Wolverine?" he said with a smile. "You've taken care of Remy, and from what I hear you didn't even know who he was. So why did you pick up the kid?"

Wolverine shrugged. "Must've had a good reason," he said. It was weird. He could remember what had happened vaguely, as if in a dream. It wasn't too long ago at all, was it? A couple weeks, at most, but it felt like another lifetime. Couldn't remember why he'd kept him around either. Didn't make sense, but he wouldn't have changed how things had turned out.

After all, the kid was alive, and the kid'd helped him out a little too. That made them square, and everyone better off for it.

Wolverine shifted slightly. It smelled too close in here. He wished he could open a window, but that wouldn't work at their altitude. Too cold. Not enough air.

"See? Heroes don't have reasons. You just do things because they're right," James said. He took off his headset and stood. "Keep your eye on the chart, will you, Wolverine? I'm going to take a break."

Wolverine nodded, checking their position. James looked at Heather, lifting his eyebrows at her disbelieving look as he left Wolverine alone on the controls.

Once they were in the back Heather spoke softly, her voice run over by the rotor.

"Are you insane?" she said. "He can't fly! At the beginning of this week he didn't even know how use his own silverware."

"But that's it, see?" James said. "He _can _fly. I hardly had to explain a thing. Just told him it was easy and everyone knew how to do it, and he just stepped up to it like it was the most natural thing in the world."

"You're _playing_ with him."

"Come on. He's the happiest he's been in days, and you know it," James said with a smile. Heather's own frown faltered, twitching into a smile. James took her hand. "You said he seemed to know a lot, but didn't know how to access it or what to do about it. He seems to want to be normal, but he knows more than he ever remembers learning, and isn't comfortable with that. So I told him that something was normal for him to know, and suddenly he's comfortable with that. He's in control—something that might be hard to make him feel once we get to Vancouver."

"But how did you even know he could fly?"

"Just a guess," James shrugged. At her expression, he grinned, then explained, "He didn't duck down when he walked under the propellers. Usually that comes from people who are pilots, or at least familiar with these birds. Hardly something you'd expect from the Tarzan of the Canadian jungles."

Heather smiled softly. "He's a good man, James. He looks tough, but I think he's a softie underneath, and he's coming more to himself every day. He's a good man."

"From what Remy told us, he does have his dark side." His expression shadowed as he looked down at the cast on his hand. "I'm sorry I left you alone with him. I had no _idea _he'd wake up_—"_

"That doesn't matter," Heather waved away. "He's been _hunted_, James, and even he doesn't know how long. How can you expect anything but that he'd fight back?" she said, then paused. "We can't let them find him, James. We have to help him."

"They'll find him," James said grimly. Heather looked at him, and he continued. "If they can track him through thousands of miles of nothing, they'll find him as soon as he shows his face. But we can protect him, Heather. I'll make sure of it."

"You and your team?"

"Me and my team."

Heather smiled, pulling into a hug. "Promise me you won't pressure him into anything."

"I promise," James said. "I want to help too, Heather. But honestly, a team like this would be the perfect place for him to fit in."

Heather leaned forward, kissing him. "I love you," she said. She turned towards Wolverine, catching her husband's hand briefly as she passed.

Wolverine glanced up at her—that watchful frown of his on his face, and Heather wondered how much he had heard over the roaring rotor. A normal man couldn't have heard anything, and she hadn't given it a thought until now.

"Hey," she said, raising her voice to be heard over the noise. "How are you doing?"

He shrugged.

Heather covered a frown at that. He and James had been . . . well, if chatting was too light of a word (she couldn't really picture Wolverine _chatting_ with anyone), it was still as close to casual conversation she'd even heard him get involved with. She'd been hoping for more of a response.

"Okay, then," Heather exhaled. "Well, I was just going to tell you . . . we're going to be landing at the base. That means people—lots of people—guns, more helicopters and stuff like this. It's where James and I work, but they're on our side, so they're not going to hurt you."

Wolverine's expression had turned unreadable—his eyes fixed in front of him.

"We can land someplace else if you like—"

"The base is fine," he said shortly.

Heather blinked at his tone. Anger? She'd spent enough time with him to know how his first reaction to fear or uncertainty was to hide behind his aggression, but she thought she'd gotten past that.

"Are you sure? Because—"

He turned to her sharply, the helicopter jerking off-balance. Heather grabbed onto the wall with a yelp, but Wolverine quickly adjusted, stabilizing the chopper with ease

"Wolverine—"

"I've got it," he said. But he still didn't look at her.

James came back up. "Whoa. Everything all right up here?"

Wolverine glanced at him, frowning slightly. Heather recognized the expression—he was remembering something: rolling it over in his mind like a sugar-starved child considering some new candy. "Air pressure," he said slowly. "Just caught some low pressure."

"Well, looks like you handled it all right," James said, glancing at the panels before him. He looked at Heather. "Better go buckle up, hon." Heather nodded, but glanced back at the men as she left.

Wolverine rummaged at his side, then held out a plastic bag to James. "Jerky?" he asked.

"Thanks," James said, grabbing a couple pieces and sitting back. Wolverine pulled the bag back, grabbing a piece for himself and sticking a large wad in his mouth. "How's it going?"

"M," Wolverine grunted around the jerky.

They sat in silence—both looking out the window at the mountains around them.

Heather made her way back to her seat, frowning to herself.

"Every'ting alrigh' up there?" Gambit asked, voice groggy from sleep as she buckled up."Just fine," Heather replied, turning her slight frown to the window as she watched the clouds float past.

But she couldn't stop wondering when Wolverine had remembered how to lie.

TBC . . . .


	45. Time After Time

Very short chap this time around, but this week has been crazy and I wanted to make sure I didn't go *two* weeks without posting. Next week's will be longer, I promise.

Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 45: Time after Time

* * *

_Now:_

Logan didn't waste his first breath on words, but rocketed forward. Bloodscream twisted around his strike—moving so fast he was nearly a blur. He didn't even bothering to pull out the sword strapped on his back.

Logan let his momentum carry him through into another turn, and Bloodscream barely caught his elbow before it slammed into his face. Wolverine ducked under his arm, slashing at his side, but the vampire jumped—twisting over his arm and vaulting over his shoulders to land on his other side, but Logan was ready for him. He spun, turned, and jumped, scissor-kicking at his face. Bloodscream blocked his blows at a blur, but Logan's boot slammed into his chin and he staggered back, briefly off balance.

Logan drilled in, but the vampire lunged forward, inhumanly fast. He snapped out with clawed fingers, slashing red across Logan's arm. He growled, snapping out with his claws, but the vampire grabbed his forearms with his bare palms.

Fire raced up his arms and Logan snarled, trying to twist back, but he'd been right with his assessments the day before; the bastard had been feeding—growing stronger. His grip was like burning steel.

"At laaast," Bloodscream hissed softly, spittle flecking from his mouth. His breath reeked of decaying meet. "Your kind has a sweet taste—the girl tastes like fire and ashes."

"You need to taste a _tic tac_, bub," Logan gritted out. He used the vamp's grip and lifted his feet off the ground, kicking out as his weight bore them both down. He hit Bloodscream right in the chest, and the bastard slammed against the wall, the mortar cracking behind him as Logan rolled onto his feet. The heat from the burning handprints on his arms dimmed behind the heat of his wrath.

"You shouldn't'a touched her," Logan said softly, stalking forward slowly.

Bloodscream smiled, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm.

"You always did have an odd protectiveness over mortals," the gaunt man smiled. His teeth weren't human—elongated, his jaw too stretched to pass. The madness that had glittered in his eyes before now shone like a burning sun. "You cannot fight me. I have spent these months healing, waiting, building my strength and power. But I can smell it on you." Wolverine twisted in again, cutting down and across, but Bloodscream blocked both and kicked out, and Logan dodged backwards, spinning back again. The vampire's grin widened. "You're changing. You smell like a beast—I smell it like lightning on the air."

He bolted in, his motions so quick that Logan barely had time to tense before a kick to his gut sent him slamming into the wall. He thudded against it, a roundhouse kick catching the side of his head. He staggered, barely warding off an attacking blow with a swipe of his claws, before Bloodscream dived in and gripped his face, splashing blood across his brow as his fingers pierced through his neck, his cheeks—jamming up against the metal of his mandible. Logan roared.

Bloodscream wheeled back with a shriek as Logan sliced through both of his wrists, and Logan gasped, wrenching the still-twitching fingers from his face. He raised his eyes, just in time to wheel back as Bloodscream lunged in for his face again—pale arms already whole.

_Crap._

Bloodscream whipped around driving down again, and Logan stumbled—already off-balance as he swiped another blow aside. He reached out, catching himself with one hand before he fell, but Bloodscream took advantage of his unbalance. In one fell swoop, he drew his sword from its sheath and sliced his throat deep enough that Logan swore felt the blade ricochet off his backbone.

He fell forward, the world suddenly narrowing into a small, surreal whirl of senseless noise and light. Blood gurgled in his mouth, and he was vaguely aware of bringing his hands up to try and stem the gush of blood as his vision blurred.

Lights flashed before his eyes—he squeezed them shut as his own blood sputtered over his cheek against the carpet. A roaring filled his ears, fading, fading . . . . .

_Thu-thump. Thu . . . thump . . . . _

Dying? He couldn't feel the vamp's hands, but maybe that was it—maybe he was too far gone. Numbing. . . .

Something snapped back—nerves reconnecting in a jolt that made Wolverine's eyes snap open and his lungs seize in a gasp of agony that was choked off by blood and wheezing. He pressed his hands against the gaping hole in his windpipe.

Sound returned like a wave—smashing into his ears like fireworks going off. Wait . . . .

A twitch of his shoulders let him see—Jubilee was standing before him, both hands held out palms-out before her. Pale as death, a burning hand marred her bloodless neck. But Bloodscream was rising from a heap against the wall, skin crawling back over a seared hole in his smoking chest.

Kid was fighting? She could barely stand!

Logan used his arms to push himself up, not even waiting until his neck muscles grew back to rise. His head lolled unsteadily as he popped his claws again.

Kid had guts, but they wouldn't do her any good spilled all over the floor.

Jubilee shot a wide-eyed stare at him, but her legs shook and she stepped back, grabbing the banister as her legs gave out beneath her.

Logan felt the world tip, but rather than fighting he went with it, bearing down on Bloodscream with his full weight. The first slash caught Bloodscream's hand, whipping his sword across the floor, and Logan dug his claws into his chest, tearing sideways as foul blood sprayed across his face, but Bloodscream laughed. "I'm going to kill you, and then I'm going to kill these brats. Every. Last. One." He emphasized each last word with a strike.

The last blow sent Logan sprawling—he slid across the polished floor, and Bloodscream followed, driving down. Logan barely caught his arms before he grabbed his face, and out of the corner of his eye he caught Jubilee's stare. The kid'd managed to drag herself against the wall, one hand pressed against her bleeding neck—barely conscious, by the look of it.

Logan looked at Bloodscream, the muscles on his arms standing out from the strain of keeping his hands away from his face. "Go—to hell," he rasped.

_BAMF!_

Sulfur mixed with the stink of blood, and something slammed down onto Bloodscream's shoulders. Bloodscream twisted, focusing on a new target, but Nightcrawler was gone, dangling from the overhead chandelier.

"Sorry I'm late," Kurt said, his tail whipping agitatedly behind him. "I did not realize ve had a guest."

Bloodscream snarled, leaping up as if defying gravity, and Nightcrawler bamfedto the wall, his fingers finding hold in the trim above the door as Bloodscream landed with a sound not unlike an angry cat, swaying on his feet like a snake as he readied to lunge again.

"No need to be rude," Kurt rebuked, bamfing in and catching the vamp with a side kick before transporting away in a cloud of putrid smoke as Logan regained his feet.

Kurt might have started out as a circus-performer-turned-monk, but between whatever Stryker had done with him and with more recent training in the Danger Room, Kurt wasn't half bad.

No, Logan thought as Kurt flashed around the vampire, who was now hissing in pure agitation as he whipped around, trying and failing to catch the ubiquitous blue elf's multi-directional blows. Kurt wasn't bad at all.

"Elf!" Logan shouted, diverting Bloodscream for a moment as Nightcrawler burst into being in front of him, laying a kick to his chest that sent him flying back towards Logan. The vamp screeched as Wolverine's claws raked across his face, biting deep and marring bone and sinew.

Bloodscream staggered back, putting his back against the wall as Nightcrawler appeared on the floor—crouching and ready to move again.

"Logan—" Kurt said, eying his friend with concern as the world tilted briefly for him again.

Logan bore his teeth, not looking away from the vamp. "You made one helluva mistake, comin' here, bub."

Bloodscream was still grinning, despite his jaw hanging slant—half-ripped from his face, and his nose crawling back into place from where it was smeared across his right cheekbone. "You think you're safe here, with your little _friends_? You woke up a lot of ghosts by coming back, ol' Patch," the vampire hissed, his teeth glistening with blood. "You should have stayed dead. They've been waiting to see what you have been planning these years, but they're done waiting. The devil and all hell's going to come out of the darkness for you, now."

Logan grabbed the front of the creature's shirt, pulling him up and bringing his own bared teeth close. Red drops of his own blood dripped onto the mess of Bloodscream's face. "Let them come."

Wolverine didn't see the blow coming. The backhand hit the side of his head, whipping his head around hard enough that it would have knocked a normal man's head right off. The force knocked him back—spinning him through the air. The air left his lungs in a rush as he hit the wall and blasted clean through it. It took him a second to figure out which way was up, and when he had Bloodscream was on him, grasping his throat as Nightcrawler slammed into the floor—unconscious from a single, unseen blow from the speed of it.

"Playtime has been fun, Patch, but it's time to sleep now. Long past your time."

"Logan!" Rogue was floating over the banister, her hair framing her furious and horrified expression. "Get yah hands offa him!"

Logan didn't have the breath or time to shout a warning.

Rogue blurred downward, throwing a punch that would've done the Hulk proud. Bloodscream's head rammed against the doorframe, splintering the wood. Rogue grabbed his shirt, pulling him up. "You're the one who won't die, are ya? This'll teach you to mess with the X-Men!"

She threw another punch, but with his inhuman strength and speed Bloodscream caught her bare arm, and they both arched back, the hall echoing with screams.

"Aaaaah!" Rogue screamed, flying back against the wall with force enough to crack it. She grabbed her head as she choked. "Hgh!"

Bloodscream was reeling, holding his own head as he keened wildly. As Logan watched, his skin began to flake and dry, and the stench of decay grew.

Logan grabbed the vampire's collar and jerked his clawed fist clean through the bastard's chest. Bloodscream gagged, his pale eyes bulging with pain and horror. He grasped Wolverine's arm to pull it out—but hadn't the strength to move him an inch. "No—" he gasped. "No—the prophecy—"

"Sorry, bub—I don't give a damn about that mumbo-jumbo crap."

He jerked his fist out of the vamp's chest and sliced clean through his neck. Bloodscream's head tumbled to the ground, and Wolverine kicked it across the hall, letting it roll underneath the piano in the adjoining room. He heard it bounce off the wall with a light _thud_.

He didn't care about that right now, but moved quickly to Rogue's side and dropped down beside her, ignoring the new arrivals and the soft curses and gasps as the student came, drawn by the noise. Bobby swore, sliding across the floor towards them, but then stopping himself before coming too close.

Rogue lay with broken bricks about her, but her eyes were open wide. "Rogue! Talk to me, kid."

No response. She was stiff and shaking as Logan lifted her out of the rubble. Something was happening to her skin—it was flaking slightly, her complexion ashen. "Darlin'?"

"H-he felt like y-you, Logan." Her brow furrowed, her eyes on his face, but her sight turned inward. "But . . . somethin's wrong. No . . . somethin's not . . . . right . . . argh!" Her eyes rolled up into her head.

"Kid!"

The stink of decay was growing—from _Rogue_, and before his eyes the skin on her cheeks began to grey and flake.

"Shit!" Logan didn't spare a thought to his own wounds. He grabbed Rogue's sleeved forearm, but Jubilee caught his shoulder. He hadn't noticed her stagger over.

"Are you _crazy_?" Jubilee said, seeing his intention.

Logan didn't bother to reply. He didn't hesitate to bring Rogue's hand up to his bloodstained face—skin-on-skin.

The feeling was almost familiar at this point—like someone had reached into his chest and grabbed hold of his heart. He gasped as blood flooded into his mouth as healing wounds stopped their closure, flooding his throat with blood.

"_No_!"

His eyes snapped open as Rogue's hands jerked back. Her eyes were open again—staring at him, but as if out of a dark haze: she seemed to struggle to keep focused on his face. "No. No—L-logan—"

Her head lolled back and she stared at the ceiling unseeingly. "Rogue? Rogue! Dammit." The scent of decay had faded slightly, but was still there—and already increasing again.

The world reeled around him and Logan threw out an arm to keep himself from keeling clean over. Bobby instinctively reached out to catch him, but one look made him change his mind. "Ice—freeze him," Logan snapped-albeit groggily as he nodded to Bloodscream's corpse.

"I'm fine," Kurt spoke, rising groggily with one hand pressed against his bleeding crown. "At least, it can vait."

Jubilee hadn't moved, a hand to the bleeding side of her neck. She was ghostly pale against her shock of yellow coat and black hair. "W-wolverine . . . ."

The kid could talk—she'd be fine. More than he could say about himself. Rogue was shaking again, and he reached down to pick her up.

Logan ripped off his jacket and wrapped it around Rogue, lifting her and pushing through the group. The world spun—the lights turning black around him, but he'd felt worse. He hit the elevator button with his elbow, not waiting for any students to catch up.

Rogue jerked in his arms, and he tightened his grip, wondering if she'd lift him right off the ground, through the elevator shaft, and through the roof—metal bones and all—if she decided to take to the skies.

"Hold on, ace," he gritted, gripping her tighter as he fought to stay conscious himself.

Beast had been in his room, but he hobbled into the medlab just seconds after Logan, even with his crutch and bandages.

"What happened?"

"Absorbed a vamp," Logan said, eyes not leaving her face. "Something ain't right. Can't ya smell it?"

Beast said nothing, but his glance confirmed that he could. He pulled on gloves over his furred hands.

"I'll take her vitals, see what's happening inside that may be causing the outer deterioration." He pulled out a blanket, laying it over Rogue to keep her warm before glancing up over his glasses. "For God's sake, Logan, sit down before you fall down and dent something." He moved towards Rogue, already working.

Logan ignored him, standing over Rogue and watching the ashen grey crawl up from her high collar once again. The stink of decay was growing thick again.

Vamps were dead, right? What kinda powers could you absorb from a dead guy?

Nothing good, it looked like.

"Talk to me, Hank," Logan demanded, leaning against the table across from him.

"I told you to sit down," Beast said, scribbling down her pulse. He glanced up as Jubilee came in, Kitty and Bobby supporting her from each side. Hank moved away to hook her up to a blood transfusion with expert motions, and glanced cursorily at Kurt and Colossus before having the elf sit to the side.

"I'll be with you in a moment. Kitty, get Jubilee a blanket from that drawer on the right. Keep her warm."

Logan didn't move, watching Rogue. Her face was growing ashen again, and he reached down, catching her fingers with his own.

The world reeled. He was barely aware as his knees slammed onto the floor, until Beast's giant hands caught him, pulling him away.

"Damn it, Logan!"

"I'm fine," Logan snapped, fighting the darkness to get back up on his feet. He caught the edge of the table, dragging himself up and shrugging away from Hank roughly. "Tell me what you've got, Beast."

Beast adjusted his glasses and looked down at his chart.

"Give me a minute, friend," he said, his voice heavy. "Give me a minute."

TBC . . . .


	46. Putting it on the Table

Okay, this isn't a super long chapter, but it is about 1/3 longer than the last—so I kept my promise for having a longer chapter. :) And I have to say—consider how crazy life with my new job has been this first term of school, I'm patting myself on the back for the progress I'm making.

Of course, your reviews are a huge help for my motivation and to feed my muses, so keep up with those! Thank you so much for the support, everyone!

I hope you enjoy the chapter. And as always, please, please, please review. You can say your favorite part of the story or chapter, quote your favorite lines, tell me about my typos (I do try to catch them, but I know some slip by), hypothesize about what's going to happen next . . . or just say "HI!" Just please review! :)

Speaking of reviews, I'm dropping in a quick note to a long-time reader and reviewer who I haven't heard from for a while: Cap Mackenzie! I know I'm not supposed to respond to reviews on here, but you've disabled your pming, so I had no choice. :D

Thanks for your review! I laughed when you mentioned the comics-I love to try to use as many comic quotes as I can, and the line you quoted was one of them. :) It's nice to see that someone notices and appreciates the "research" put into this! ;)

The whole thing with Logan smelling different . . . I didn't mean to imply that his scent had changed drastically, but something's been up that is making him smell . . . less in control, and Bloodscream noticed that. Maybe not strictly scientific, but I liked the line: "I smell it like lightning on the air." Heh. I'm such a dork.

I'm glad you're still around and still liking the story! Hopefully some of your questions will be answered . . . relatively soon. :D

Good to hear from you!

* * *

Chapter 46: Putting it on the Table

* * *

_Now:_

Jubilee rested on the second table in the med lab; Kurt had left soon after being cleared with only a minor concussion—he headed upstairs to recreate some semblance of order, take care of the body, and find out how, exactly, Bloodscream had made his way past security. Beast had gone to his files, pulling out notes and flipping through them before finally turning to Logan with a grim expression and a grimmer explanation.

_Deteriorating_. That's what Beast called it. Not exactly a medical term, but it carried its meaning well enough, even to Logan's fevered mind as his body struggled to heal with a healing factor that he was lending out for two.

Beast cleared his throat before continuing gravely. "Realize this is just hypothetical, but . . . before Jean died, we discussed the concern of the possibility of Rogue being . . . overrun, by absorbed personalities."

"What?" Logan snapped. Something liquid slid down the side of his face and burned his eye. Sweat or blood, he didn't know—and ultimately didn't care.

"It's just a theory," Beast explained, adjusting an IV he'd fitted to Rogue's arm. "Along that line . . . it seems that that Rogue's body may not be strong enough to hold two fully developed personalities in tandem. She's lasted this long well enough—and I predict that we owe that good fortune to both Rogue and Carol Danvers' trust in you, Logan—but the assault of recent consciousnesses have disrupted the fragile balance."

Logan looked down at Rogue's face, ignoring how she seemed to swim before his vision; he didn't have time right now to rest. She'd gone still—the fight withdrawing into her mind, though a grey tinge remained to her skin, growing deeper like ash as he watched. "English, Hank," Logan said, leaning heavily on the table.

Beast pulled his glasses off and cleaned them with a handkerchief. "Frankly speaking, if either Rogue or Carol Danvers doesn't give up soon, Logan, I fear that neither of them are going to survive."

Logan looked down at Rogue again. His throat hurt—felt like trying to swallow a razor blade, and tasted like blood. Course, he was probably still bleeding; he wasn't exactly giving his healing factor a chance to catch up. He gritted his teeth.

"Screw that," Logan said, reaching forward to catch her bare hand again. The tugging sensation returned and he gasped as ice stabbed through his veins. His legs collapsed under him, and Beast barely caught him, pulling him back out of the echoing, dark tunnel of unconsciousness.

"That is enough," Beast said, as Logan tried to pull out of his grip and almost collapsed on the floor. Hot copper burned his throat, and he choked softly as he shrugged Beast away. "You are killing yourself, and addressing the symptoms, not the cause. It's possible you're even making it worse."

"What the hell d'ya want me to do?" Logan said through the blood, knees nearly on the floor and fingers hard against the table to keep himself from falling clean over. With the words the taste of blood grew, but he swallowed it back down, gritting his teeth harder until it hurt. In his weakened state his words sounded embarrassingly like he was pleading.

"Wait," Beast said. He grabbed the nearby chair, dragging it towards him and lowering himself onto it with a tired sigh. He looked a bit pale blue to Logan as he glanced upward at him. Guess the guy's been half beat to death just a few days ago. Not everyone healed as fast as he did.

Long couple'a days.

"You okay?"

Beast glanced at him. "I must admit that I have felt somewhat better," he replied honestly. "Though you are hardly one to ask."

Logan frowned, planting his feet more firmly as he realized he was wavering slightly: no wonder the room felt a bit off balance. He looked down at Rogue's calm face, pushing some of the hair away from her eyes and being extra careful not to touch skin. He frowned as blood from his hands turned her hair darker, and he pulled back, seeing his blood on her hands and arms where he'd touched for the first time. It was stark against her pale, fading skin.

He turned suddenly and made for the door, reaching out to catch the wall to help himself along. "Keep an eye on her," he gritted.

"Where are you going?"

"I can't help her, and if I have to go to hell to make a deal with the devil to help her, then I will." He paused at the door, holding onto the frame as if pulling together the energy to move forward. "I'm gonna make a phone call."

He didn't stick around long enough for Beast to ask for an explanation.

Logan leaned against the side of the elevator as it went up—but stepped out as soon as the doors pinged open. He strode down the hall, vision spotty, but he blinked it aside, gritting his teeth at the white explosions of pain at every step.

Logan reached a shaking hand into his newly tattered coat he'd taken back from Rogue, but he was out of cigars. Damn. If it rains, it pours.

He threw open the headmaster's office, not bothering to close it behind him.

He could still smell the professor, Jean, Scott—and over it all, Ororo: all dead or missing. He ignored it all, slamming drawers open and closed until he found the folders and pulled them out. He immediately discarded the top two on the desk, and pulled one out near the back. He flipped it open, scanning over it briefly.

So she could teach. Apparently taught almost everything at her Academy before it was blown to hell. Administration experience, met with some high-ranking government bastards a few times. Field experience was short and undetailed:

_Member and leader of exclusive mutant group. Experienced with diplomacy and on the field as needed._

Vague. But he supposed putting: "I kicked your asses and can do it again" probably wouldn't have gone over well with Storm.

He could do worse.

Maybe.

Didn't matter right now. All that mattered was the third line, written in a cool, elegant hand.

_Class four telepath._

He snagged the phone and dialed the number.

"Emma Frost speaking."

"How serious were you about teachin' at Xavier's, Frost?"

There was a pause—he'd obviously taken her unexpectedly.

"Who is this?"

"You're a telepath—can't you tell?"

"It's not a habit of mine to muck around in every common mind I come across," she said, her voice chilling a few dozen degrees.

Good. She was either more ethical than Ororo'd given her credit for or she was smart enough to lie. Knowing what he did of her, it was probably the latter.

"The name's Logan."

"The Wolverine?" So she'd done some research. Good for her.

"No, the gardener," he said. "Listen, Frost—I ain't got the time or care for any sweet talk. I wanna know how interested you are in the job."

Another silence. Good. She was thinking before she answered. Either that or she was debating whether to hang up on him or not.

"I want the job," she said at last, the false chick voice gone, though the stiff, upper-class snobbery remained.

"Good. I want you here as soon as you can get here, got it?"

"Fine. With my resources I can be to your little school in an hour and a half or less."

"Make it less. Oh, and Frost? You ain't got the job yet, so try to make a better impression than the last guys."

There was a soft, almost sultry laugh. He frowned, wondering if she'd taken the time to read his mind to find the story behind that. "Of course, Wolverine. Can I at least bring my bags?"

"Jus' realize you might be draggin' them right back out."

"You're a sweetheart," she said dryly.

"Don't hurt yourself. See you in an hour."

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine kept control of the helicopter until they'd landed. The man James contacted base and cleared their entrance, and directed him down. The copter settled like a dream.

James hopped stood and went to the back, and Wolverine struggled briefly with undoing his seatbelt before repacking his jerky and picking up the backpack that Heather had given him. The soldiers and Remy had already exited the chopper, and Heather was waiting for him, her scent sharp with worry.

For him? Or of him?

He frowned, looking away from her and towards the base. He clenched his jaw and stepped out into the sunlight.

The rotor had gone silent, and now he could hear clearly the rumbling of passing machines—like cars, but bigger. Gun oil and gunpowder bit at his nose, but over that—people. They were everywhere, and he could feel eyes on him like the time he'd fallen asleep on a hill of biting red ants. It hadn't taken long to heal, but the bites had burned like fire, and he hadn't been able to cut the little devils with his claws.

Gas. Smoke. Fire. Humans.

Metal. Brightness. Noise. Sweat. Guns.

It burned his eyes, seared his nose, and cut into his throat. He took a step back into the shadow before he could stop himself, gasping, but each breath only filled his lungs with more choking air. He tried to swallow the rising nausea, but it caught halfway down.

_Run!_

"Wolverine?"

Heather. Her voice was nothing beside the roaring of people—like a hive of bees, but more pervasive—drowning out the silence at every pitch imaginable. But he could hear her.

Smell her.

That's right. She smelled like flowers. Like lavender. A hint of mountain air had sunk into her hair and still lingered there.

He focused on her, breathing through his mouth as he shut his eyes briefly and focused on unclenching his fists. He could still smell her worry, but she was something to focus on in the overwhelming sensory dump.

She'd been worried about this. She'd talked to him because she thought he couldn't handle it.

But he could smell the kid too, hovering nearby nervously—a peek showed him shifting from one foot to another and watching him uncertainly, as if ready to jump in front of him or run in the opposite direction.

The man—James. Mac. He was standing, talking to an older soldier that smelled of strange-smelling smoke. Mac didn't smell worried at all. Didn't smell afraid.

Wolverine frowned, hunching his shoulders and glaring down the two younger soldiers who had accompanied them. They looked away quickly. An older soldier took an extra couple seconds, but he looked away too. There seemed to be dozens of other eyes crawling up his back, but he glared away as many as he could.

"Are you okay?" Heather asked. Wolverine glanced at her questioningly, and she clarified. "Just . . . with everything here, and you attacked like you were." She paused. "You know, those were bad men that did that. Bad men that hurt you. Not . . . not these soldiers."

Wolverine looked at her, aware for the first time of the sweat that had beaded on his forehead. It was warm, but not _that_ warm, and he brushed it away quickly.

He shrugged, looking almost bored. "C'n take 'em," he said, glancing around. Remy chuckled—but it was knowing rather than mocking.

Heather glanced at the both of them, then followed Wolverine's gaze as he took in the hangar, the humvees, the soldiers going about the day's work. Was he acting tough, or was he serious?

But however "fine" Wolverine claimed to be, Heather was as tense as a string about to snap as they started forward. The soldiers fell in close behind, but Wolverine turned and bared his teeth, popping his claws in a clear warning. They'd been briefed about the situation, but the soldiers couldn't help but jump back in alarm; even Mac pulled back, staring.

Heather managed to talk him into putting them away—keeping her voice calm and steady despite her own nerves—and they walked on. Maybe it wasn't all that safer, but it seemed less threatening.

The soldiers kept a better distance after that.

The idea was to get him comfortable first—or as comfortable as possible. Heather wished they'd taken him anywhere but this base—he seemed determined on glaring down anyone who he caught looking at him, and even if he adopted an air of nonchalance every time he saw her watching him, she could see the way his muscles tensed beneath the skin of his arms. He almost full-on attacked a security guard when he tried to take his backpack of jerky and crackers as they went through security.

Remy beat her that time—catching Wolverine's shoulder and speaking quickly.

"Don' worry, mon ami. Dere's lots'a food here—and it not like dey gonna steal anything. Just give it up."

Remy reached for the bag, but Wolverine bared his teeth at him and held it closer, retreating in his too-long pajama pants. The soldier stepped back, looking at James for orders.

"Just let him go," James said. "The bag's clear."

They headed into the bustling hallway, the corridors clearing before them. James walked ahead of them, talking on his radio.

Heather hovered at Wolverine's side, growing more and more nervous by the minute, though he seemed to grow colder and colder; his visible anxiety dissipating, his eyes flitting here and there with a sharpness that made her feel like he was mapping the place out.

For escape or attack?

Cold, but not calm. His fists remained clenched, and his shoulders quivered with tensed-up energy. Heather was glad the soldiers kept a good distance—she knew there was nothing she could do if something set him off. Not if Remy was telling the truth about what had happened in the woods.

Helicopters. Grenades. Machine guns. At first she'd thought it was youthful imagination, if she hadn't seen Wolverine heal up from three gunshots to the face and chest within hours. Bullets might hurt him, but they didn't frighten him, and she had a feeling they would hardly slow him down, if he panicked.

_What were they thinking, bringing him here?_

When Mac started talking about paperwork and tracking down Remy's parents, Heather let them go—taking Wolverine to her part of the building. At least nobody else would be down there, and she could satisfy some of her curiosity at the same time until things settled down.

She pressed her palm against the keypad, scanning her prints in to unlock her lab before pulling the door open. Logan stopped stand-still as the filtered air from the lab breathed out onto him, his expression shifting the slightest bit for the first time in a good half an hour. Still, he followed her in without a word

Wolverine sneezed as she opened the door to the main lab. Funny; she couldn't remember having heard him sneeze before.

Oh, except that first night—when he'd spilled the rubbing alcohol over himself.

It _did_ kind of smell like disinfectant in here. Maybe he was extra sensitive to that?

Logan padded in, his feet still bare, and still dressed in the scrubs they'd found for him the day before. The pants dragged and the shirt was too long, but it still was a bit tight across his shoulders.

_Shopping_, Heather thought, immediately beginning to form a list in her head of what he would need. Pants, shirts, socks, shoes. Would Wolverine prefer boxers or briefs? She'd probably just have to get both and see what he decided he liked better.

She frowned inwardly. The list would stretch the already-tight budget that she and Mac were on. They were just barely coming out of the debt they'd collected after she'd lost her job protecting James' project from becoming government property and him getting sent to jail. They had been given a stipend to start this team of his, but James' suit didn't make itself. She wondered what he would say if she asked if she could use some of his government funding to keep Wolverine clothed.

Knowing Mac, he wouldn't mind at all. But Heather could already see the cogs moving in his head—he wanted Wolverine on the team, and while it might be a great idea. . . she didn't want him stuck somewhere before he realized what it meant. Funding his living from the team's budget would only reinforce that he was a part of it already, like everyone else was already assuming.

Wolverine had stopped at the door, and hadn't moved since. His eyes were narrow, and his nose twitching. He looked half-ready to bolt.

"Come on in and sit down," she said. "Come on. I'm not going to bite."

Wolverine looked at her, and a glint of wildness faded. He stepped forward—his bare footsteps silent and oddly careful on the polished floor. Heather turned away, gathering her notes. "Just hop up on the table," she said.

Wolverine stopped, frowning at her, then back at the metal table. His frown deepened.

"What's the matter?"

He glanced at her. "Smells funny," he answered at length.

Something was off. She looked at him carefully—was his skin a bit paler? Was that a sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead?

"Are you okay?" Heather asked suddenly, and then added, begrudgingly. "We don't have to do this now."

"'m fine."

Heather wondered if he would make the same claim if he were on his death bed.

He hopped up onto the table, his feet dangling over the edge.

Wolverine shifted, feeling the sweat on his palms. He felt like his skin was trying to crawl from his bones, but he couldn't say why.

Just a room. But it was too bright, too shiny. Too clean. Couldn't smell a thing—the air burned his nose. He sat back, deceptively relaxed.

"I'm going to draw some blood, okay? Just a little; I'm going to run some tests."

Wolverine shrugged, looking bored.

Heather drew out a syringe, and looked at him before taking his arm. He let her, fighting down the urge to rip his arm away and run out of the room, out of this base, and back into the woods.

What was there to be afraid of?

Heather watched his reaction as she turned his arm to get to his vein. "This is just going to pinch a bit," she said. "It'll just be a second. Are you . . . okay?"

"Fine." Her hands were hot on his arm. Too hot. Burning.

Her hair smelled like lavender and evergreen. He fixed on it—breathing her in, watching her, blocking out everything else.

Heather nodded, but she smelled nervous as she tied a band around his upper arm and located his vein. There was the smallest sting as the needle entered and she released the band—not even a bee sting—but Wolverine jolted as if shocked.

His claws sprang out of his fist and he jerked back sharply.

Heather jumped back, holding up her hands. "Whoa! Whoa, whoa. It's okay. It's okay, Wolverine. It's okay."

Wolverine's eyes shot to Heather's. He was pale, and his breath hoarse as if he'd run all day without a stop to drink. He looked strangely vulnerable as he looked up at her, sweat making his hair stick darkly around his face.

Wolverine blinked at her, seeming to come back to himself, and looked sharply down at his claws. He seemed almost surprised to see them, and they vanished with a loud _snakt_ that made Heather jump.

"I . . . . I . . . " He rubbed his fists with a jerky motion, and then noticed the needle still stuck dangling in the crick of his arm and went still—uncertain what to do. "Uh . . . Sorry." He looked at Heather, holding his arm out for her.

He was still shaking slightly, but his reaction had seemed unconscious. Heather took a breath to slow her own pounding heart and stepped forward slowly. "I'm sorry," she said. "Maybe we should do this later."

"No," Wolverine said, his voice low. "It's fine."

Still feeling as if she were doing something wrong, Heather reached forward for the needle. She pulled it out, hoping for an adequate sample, but the blood hadn't even passed the needle before stopping dry. She looked down at his arm—not even the smallest mark from where she'd pulled the needle.

"Damn," she said, turning away to put the needle back on the tray. She wondered if drawing blood like this would even work—or would his healing factor just stop the bleeding as soon as it started? Either way, this would have to wait for another day. He was going through enough already.

_SNIKT!_

Heather turned sharply at the sound, but Wolverine's single popped claw had already cut cleanly through his wrist, and blood flowed from the wound over his hand. He held out his arm, the corners of his eyes tight from the pain, but his eyes themselves guileless.

"Oh my God!" Heather gasped, grabbing for a cloth and jumping forward to try and cover the wound. But Wolverine just held out his hand towards her as blood spread over his palm, pooling in dips and lines.

"It's okay," he said for the second time in as many minutes. "'s fer yer blood sample, Heather."

Heather stared at his wrist, watching as the skin zipped itself up like a Ziploc baggy being pressed shut. Wolverine raised his eyebrows, standing and picking up the syringe from the tray and handing it to her. Heather took it numbly, but then twisted off the needle and held the vial out as Wolverine turned his palm and let the blood pour, and then drip into the small vial. It filled quickly, and a lone stray drop made its way down the outside of the vial.

Wolverine looked satisfied as Heather turned away, her hands shaking as she stopped the vial and put it on the tray. She turned back to him, pale.

"Don't do that again!" she said. "We would have figured something out. There's no need for you to go _hurting_ yourself!"

Wolverine looked away, then shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

"It's not _healthy_," Heather emphasized, but Wolverine's eyes were far away. She looked down at his wrist as the line where he'd cut himself finished sealing off, and before her eyes the scar thinned and was swallowed up by healthy, unmarred skin.

He was healing faster. It'd taken him hours to wake up from getting shot; he'd healed from cutting his wrist in seconds.

Despite herself, Heather realized that Wolverine had a point. Who was she to talk about health to somebody who could heal up from a life-threatening wound in a blink of an eye?

On the other hand, she'd never had a clearer picture of how _wrong_ things were with him—to panic at a needle but to casually cut his own wrist without giving it a second thought.

_God,_ Heather thought bleakly, looking down at the vial of blood and the drying stain on its side. _What did they do to you, Wolverine?_

_

* * *

_

_Don't remember much about that first day. Just a blur of colors, faces, sights, smells. Blurrin' together into a fog. Gotta admit, it . . . overwhelmed me a bit. Didn't know what to think, let alone do. Just followed Heather._

_She started a couple other tests. Don't remember what—was too busy just sittin' and tryin' not to bolt to wonder what she was up to. Now I kinda wonder, though. She must've found out about the adamantium—unbreakable, and all that. But I don't remember anyone ever mentionin' it, not until I joined Xavier's crowd and saw my whole skeleton for the first time. I figure Department H's got a lot of info on me that I didn't bother to find out before I left._

_Mac came back. We ate in Heather's office, away from the mess hall. Wasn't feelin' hungry, but I cleared my plate anyway. Said somethin' about showin' me to my room, but on the way Heather got called down. She didn't want to go, but I said I was fine—wasn't about t'say otherwise._

_Heather touched my arm when she left—said she'd be back in the morning, an' then she left and Mac took me to the room. A private bunk. A separate, plain room. Said the kid was bunked down in someplace similar. They let me keep the bag with the snacks, an' left. Didn't mind gettin' left: was busy sniffin' down the room, settling down. Was a bit tired after the whole day, and Mac had gone before I'd given it a second thought, closin' the door behind him._

TBC . . .


	47. Always Watching Over You

All right. A bit shorter chapter again, but it's the week of Halloween, so I'm calling in one of my many excuses. But short or no, I hope you enjoy. :)

Happy Halloween, everyone! Drop a review for me instead of the usual candy! ;)

* * *

Chapter 47: Always Watching Over You

* * *

_Now:_

Logan stared down at Emma Frost's folder, a lit cigar held firmly between his teeth that he'd dug out from his secret stash in the kitchen. Good thing he kept a few handy: he wasn't feeling up to taking the stairs at the moment.

He puffed away, frowning. The smoke burned his still-healing throat, but the scent made the world back up a hair, letting him breathe.

What in the world was he doing here?

Logan knew he wasn't high-class material—not in morality, money, or manner. Storm had been—and still _was, _he insisted—a goddess: gorgeous, natural in her beauty, clean as summer rain.

Emma Frost was a Barbie Doll from hell.

Course she'd probably stab him in the eye with her high heel if he were to tell her so, so actually saying such a thing out loud was out of the question. She was cool, collected, and completely no-nonsense despite her perfectly manicured hands. She looked like a bitch.

He liked her right from the start.

Though 'liked' probably wasn't the right word. At least he figured he wouldn't have to put up with much crap from her, and that sat just fine with him.

She wasn't wearing the corset. He was glad; not like he minded the view, but the whole outfit was a bit too kinky. She'd swapped it for low-riding pants and a weird top that left her shoulders and stomach bare, with a sort of cape that fell around her back and arms—all white. It somehow took the slutty look one step higher to something almost elegant. Lady had guts, and a good bod—and wasn't afraid to show either.

"All righ'" Logan said, pulling his feet down from the desktop and slapping the folder down. "Here're the ground rules. There's no point in playin' with my head—it's already screwed to hell, so stay out of it. And no messin' with the kids or I'll kill ya. Any questions?"

"Your bluntness, crass as it is, is strangely refreshing, Mr. Logan."

"Jus' Logan," he said. "You don't got my respect, Frost. You gotta earn it."

"Very well."

He leaned forward. "I'm gonna lay it down to you right here. This place is a mess. I'm probably gonna get hell for callin' you in, but I didn't see any other choice. I gotta kid downstairs whose losin' control of her powers. Touches people, absorbs their psyche or whatever the hell. You don't get in there and sort everythin' out, she dies."

"I see," Emma Frost said dryly, lifting a perfectly sculptured eyebrow. "And once I've 'sorted everything out,' I'll be calling back my driver?"

"Was thinkin' about it," Logan said, standing. "Any other questions?"

The telepath stepped to the side, gesturing with her hand for him to lead. "'Wherever you go, I will go,'" she quoted.

A sarcastic little bitch, wasn't she?

He smirked.

Frost followed him into the hall, eyes tracing the lines of the house with an aloof expression. They didn't speak as he pushed the button for the elevator, and she regarded him coolly as they descended. Logan ignored her, along with the itch of his blood drying down his chest. His throat still hurt like hell as it continued sealed its way back up, and he could still taste fresh blood as it leaked slowly from the shrinking seam. His healing factor was still playing catch-up after being leant out to Rogue.

Great first impression.

Had to hand it to Frost, though—she had barely blinked when he'd answered the door. Good at keeping her feet under her.

Wolverine stepped out first, jerking his thumb towards the room at the end of the hall as he spoke around his cigar.

"Cerebro's there. Might let you play with it once I figure you're not gonna make all our heads explode or whatever the hell. Danger Room, Med Lab," Logan pointed each out, and then swept into the last named. "How she doin'?" he asked Beast, not missing a beat.

Beast looked up and blinked. He turned slowly on his crutch. "Ms. Frost," he said, his voice as polite as ever, but there was a hard edge to his tone. "I was not aware that we were going to be having company."

"I was invited here to help," Emma said coolly, "where it is so clearly needed." She eyed his bandages and cast, and glanced at Jubilee before stepping forward, eyes on Rogue. "It seems the X-Men are never short of those ready to hand them their righteous asses on a platter."

Beast's eyes narrowed, and Wolverine made to step forward, but Frost had already moved on, looking down at Rogue. "Absorbing psyches, you mentioned?" she said, glancing up briefly at Wolverine before looking down at Rogue. She flinched slightly, pulling back. "Ah, yes, they are there. My, it is a bit crowded in there." She straightened, bringing a hand to her forehead. "And loud. An unruly lot, for sure." She looked at Beast. "She absorbs personalities by touch? Would you mind filling me in, Dr. McCoy?"

Hank still looked like someone had ruffled his fur the wrong way, but he just adjusted his glasses and spoke. "She's absorbed a number of personalities over the years," he said. "Her first at age 16. A slight touch is all it takes—draining the touched of memories, personality, what can best be described as 'life force' . . . and in a mutant's case, their powers as well. The length of the touch ascribes the length of the effect on her; the longest I had observed previously was barely more than a few hours."

"A handy gift, and a powerful one. And our little darling let the power get to her head?"

"Hardly," Beast said, voice short.

Frost listened as he and Logan recounted the events of the last two days—the fight with the Avengers, Rogue's absorption of Ms. Marvel, and the results. And then the fight with Bloodscream, and her following deterioration.

"I believe it's not Bloodscream himself that is the cause, but rather that he is the last of many, and the last straw to unbalance the entirety of Rogue's mind," Beast finished off.

Emma Frost nodded. "A sound conclusion. The focal point of this incident is clearly her run in with Ms. Marvel." She looked over at Logan. "You said the Scarlet Witch said Ms. Marvel's _soul_ was taken?"

"Yeah, whatever that means," Logan said. "We just can't figure. She only absorbed her for a minute or so—she got stuck, or somethin'. It's always faded after a while, but this time we hear this Danvers character's still in the hospital—brain-dead, or somethin', and Rogue's got her powers strong as the first minute."

"Hm. The abnormality may be due to the extraterrestrial aspect of Ms. Marvel's powers. With the added supernatural aspect of the vampire, it appears that it may be beyond her mental strength to remain dominant."

Logan took his cigar from his mouth. "Did you just say somethin' about aliens, or is my hearin' going out?"

Frost looked at him, half-exasperated, and half-haughtily. "Honestly, don't you do any _research_, Wolverine, or do you always go into battle with both eyes shut?"

Logan bristled, but Beast interrupted, leaning on his crutch as he explained.

"Ms. Marvel's powers came from an alien race . . . the Kree. She ended up absorbing a certain extraterrestrial's powers. His name was Mar Vell."

So she took the guy's name? "Cute."

"What Ms. Frost is suggesting is that Rogue's condition and the dramatic effect of the absorption may be blamed on that very thing."

"Their minds—they are mixed—in turmoil," Emma Frost said, her eyes shut in concentration as she leaned forward, stretching a hand over Rogue's forehead without touching her white glove to her ashen brow. "But there's more than two, or three—I can't count them, they're so . . . wild." Her eyebrows raised slightly, her eyes remaining closed. "Well, well, well, Wolverine, and here's quite a bit of _you_ in there."

"What?" Logan demanded. He knew there would be some left over from touching her about an hour before, but it should be fading—surely not enough to stand out next to Rogue herself and Ms. Marvel.

Ms. Frost continued, sounding vaguely amused. "Oh, it is quite a strong influence." A slight smile curved on her lips. "But don't worry. The main conflict is not stemming from your aggressive tendencies, for once. It appears she's reached a temporary impasse." Frost opened her eyes, stoic, but she reached into her low waistline and drew out a petitely-folded handkerchief and dabbed the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead. "But even that cannot last. The only chance she has is if I push back the other personalities—bind them, if you will, and let her original personality regain control."

It sounded too damn much like Jeannie—like the professor, binding whatever power had been fighting to get out. But hell, this Danvers character and all the others in there were intruders in Rogue's head. They weren't going to cage a part of her, but only a bunch of fragmented viruses threatening to kill her.

Logan looked down at Rogue's still face—ashen and pale as death. Her fingertips were ashen—flaking away with decay. Her lips pale grey, her eyes sunken.

He drew his eyes up—catching Emma Frost's cool gaze with his own.

"Do it," he said.

God, he hoped he wasn't going to hate himself for this.

Again.

* * *

_Got rid of Bloodscream. Took his head and buried it a couple miles into the wood in a block of cement, buried his arms separate about a half a mile south. Even if he starts to pull himself back together, it'll take a couple decades to find everything.

* * *

_

It took Frost a good hour—standing unmoving over Rogue, a hand stretched before her and her brow showing the faintest crease from her effort. At last she finished, looking pale herself as she took the seat offered by Beast.

"Finished," she said, slightly breathless as she pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed at her forehead again. "Though if it was successful, only time will tell."

"Stick around, then. Beast? Wanna go get the lady somethin' t'drink?"

They left, and Logan lowered himself into the stool that Frost had vacated at Rogue's side. He leaned forward, taking hold of the blanket over Rogue and carefully adjusting it so it covered her arm, which had fallen out of the cover.

He realized he was still smoking and grimaced, tossing the butt in the sink before leaning forward—slumped with exhaustion as he finally allowed his healing factor time to rest.

Silent eyes watched his back as his head lowered. Minutes ticked by and Wolverine began to nod off—too drained to keep his eyes open, despite himself.

Jubilee had been dozing on and off for the last couple hours, but had woken up when the strange blond lady had finished. She now watched Wolverine with a frown, but finally gathered up the breath to speak. "Hey, dude. Hey!"

Wolverine's head snapped up so fast it hurt—he groaned softly as his slowly healing injuries were jarred. "What the hell?" he snapped at her, but then blinked—glancing at Rogue and back to Jubilee as he remembered where he was. He stood, but had to lean on the table to keep his balance, though he certainly tried to hide it as he moved to her bed, glancing at her vitals. "Everythin' okay, kid?"

"You should—" Jubilee was cut off when her breath caught in her dry throat. She coughed, her bruised throat making it feel like she was coughing up knives. She swallowed, eyes tearing. "You should go rest," she wheezed.

Wolverine exhaled in a soft grunt, then limped over to the sink and got a paper cup from the dispenser before bringing it back to her. "Drink up," he said, his own voice hoarse. "Dehydration's common when you've lost blood like this. Even with the IV, it'll take ya some time t'get your feet back under you."

Jubilee eyed him, but took the cup, sipping it. She was polite enough to pretend that she didn't see how much his hand was shaking—she was sure Wolverine wouldn't respond well to that.

The water burned on the way down, but the fire in her throat faded as the cup emptied. "Thanks," she said, settling back down. Wolverine pretended not to hear her, returning to the chair by Rogue's bed and watching her. "Seriously, though—you need to take care of yourself too, you know."

Wolverine just looked at her—his dark eyes narrowing as he did so. Jubilee managed to quell the urge to shrink. She swallowed with difficulty—it felt like someone had shoved a roll of sandpaper down her throat, though the water had helped.

"Get some rest, kid," he said, his tone suggesting the conversation was closed.

Jubilee didn't mind—the haze over her mind was growing thicker, and sleep had never sounded so good. Her eyes slid shut, but before they were closed she saw Wolverine glance over at her again—eyes checking over her and the steady beeping of her heart.

That image stayed with her as she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

_Then:_

_ "I'll be back in the morning, okay?"_

Wolverine lay back on his cot, biting down hard on an extra tough piece of jerky as he stared at the featureless ceiling above him.

He felt odd. Cold sweat that refused to leave made the sheets beneath him stick to his skin—making him feel cold in the air conditioned air, but hot enough that he felt like he'd been running for hours on end. His mouth was sticky and dry; he wondered if there was any water to be had in this place.

He glanced around the room, seeing nothing but some small cracks in the metal along the wall. The light gleamed against it, and he felt a wave of cold. He shivered.

Too cold. Too empty. Too clean.

He felt like he was suffocating.

He sat up, still chewing the now-tasteless wad of jerky. His mouth was too dry to swallow.

He stepped to the middle of the room, his feet sticking on the cold floor. He turned around slowly, then looked up—not sure what he was looking for, but sure it was there.

He could feel eyes on him. Invisible eyes, but they were there.

He felt a need to spit, but instead turned around, eyes glancing at the door, then scanning the walls again.

It felt strange. Half-familiar, like he'd been in a room like this a thousand times before. Comfortable, almost, but overlaid with such an unfamiliarity that he almost felt torn in two.

He stepped forward slowly, running his hand over a seam in the wall, and then cautiously pressed down. There was a soft _click_, and part of the wall slid open and out—opening up to bowl a little higher than his waist.

A sink.

He reached out cautiously, twisting the knob until clear water streamed out of the faucet. He started slightly, then quickly reached forward to pool the blood-warm water in his cupped hands and then lean down to gulp at it greedily.

No knowing if it would go away.

He drank until his stomach hurt and the taste of jerky was washed from his mouth. He slid the sink back into the wall hesitantly, trying to ignore the feeling in his gut that that would be the last drink he'd have in a very long time.

He stepped back to the cot, plopping down on it with a weight that made it groan in protest. He grabbed his beef jerky, stuffing another wad into his mouth to try and make the empty feeling in his gut go away.

Heather said there was lots of food here. Nothing to worry about. No biting hunger in the cold snow, huddled under bushes as the wind stripped through his flesh and into his bones.

Safe. Warm.

Wolverine lifted his head warily as the footsteps stopped outside his door. A soft knock echoed through his room.

"Wolvie?" came the accented whisper on the other side.

The kid.

Wolverine slipped from bed, moving quickly to the door and grabbing the doorknob. It didn't move. He frowned, wondering why it was broken, and then popped a claw and stuck it in the seam between the door and the wall. There was a slight catch, and he pulled the door open.

Wolverine grimaced at the even brighter light from the hall. His eyes adjusted quickly, though; no one was there besides Remy, who was standing in his stained coat and looking up at him.

"Sorry ta wake you, mon ami—but Gambit heading out. Dis ain't a place for him, an' I got ta get home. Heather said she'd help, but I got enough money, and Gambit make it just fine." A pause. "You sure you not wanna come?"

Wolverine hesitated, looking at the mop of hair. The kid smelled clean beneath his old clothes—must've taken a shower or something. His black and red eyes watched him, but they didn't bother him like the others' eyes.

He didn't know if staying here was the right thing or not, but going with the kid felt just as wrong as anything. Here, though, he was close to the forest. And close to Heather . . . . Close to everything he knew.

Slowly, he shook his head.

Remy sighed, but he didn't look surprised. He shifted his grip on the bag thrown over his shoulder, looking down for a second before meeting his eyes again. "Listen, Wolvie—I know ya prob'ly won't need it, but here's Remy's number, 'kay? You need somethin', an'thin' at all, you call. I drop everythin' and come runnin'." He held out a paper, and Wolverine took it.

Gambit nodded and turned to go. "Thanks again, Wolverine. Take care'a youself, petit. Heather and Mac are nice, but somethin' 'bout this place stinks."

Wolverine couldn't smell anything, but he didn't think that was what the kid meant.

The kid walked away. Wolverine leaned against the doorframe, watching him as he walked down the hall and turned a corner out of sight. He wondered absently how the kid was planning to get out—he couldn't slice through like Wolverine could, if he wanted to.

Gambit's scent was fading in the air. Wolverine turned back into his room, letting the door swing shut.

Kid had skills. He'd be fine.

Wolverine looked down at the number in his hand. He stared at it for a moment, then ripped the paper into tiny pieces and swallowed them.

Texture was nasty, but they were all the way down before he thought about why he'd done it.

_Just in case._

If something turned sour here, the kid wasn't getting mixed up in it. He'd been mixed up in it enough.

Wolverine went back to the bed and plopped down, the frame groaning under his weight as he lay back, staring at the featureless metal ceiling. He turned onto his side, using his arm as a pillow, and stared at the door. His stomach felt like he'd swallowed a bullet or two, and now they were just there, churning inside him and refusing to go away.

_Good luck, kid._

TBC . . . .


	48. A Room of One's Own

Next chapter, folks. It's been a bit tough trying to keep up with the once a week thing, but so far I've been able to keep up. Reviews, as always, help a whole lot with the inspiration and the encouragement. :)

OH! And one quick thing before I move on. If you lot didn't notice, I have begun a Gambit spin-off from this story titled "Angels and Demons," which you can access from my profile page. I figure that since so many of you were sad to see him go in the "Then" section, you could at least keep in touch with him on there. Don't forget to leave a review (or 2 or 3)! ;)

To Cap MacKenzie (with the whole no-PM messages thing going on): Thanks for explaining your first review to the last chapter. I was a bit taken aback at first; I wasn't sure if you were joking or not. For me, Halloween is just a time for me to dress up like a geek without people giving me weird looks. I don't really do anything besides that. You are right, though: a lot of us never really think about the origins of some of our consumerized traditions. :) Halloween . . . yeah, I might not really want to go there. Ulgh. I hope you accept my apology: I certainly didn't mean to offend anyone.

Thanks for coming back for a nice, long review there! I love how you have the background with these characters to see all the little seeds I'm planting and to appreciate them when they sprout. :) I've been waiting forever to get Jubilee off her high horse. I'm glad you understood the reason for Gambit to leave, too. It might have been interesting to see how he would fit in with Department H, but he doesn't belong there. As for why he was running in the past . . . I think you'll find out in about 10 chapters or so. It's not a big thing, but it will be mentioned.

The whole thing that drove this story from the beginning was me wondering about the holes in Wolverine's history around the Department H time and before. I've been planning this part for a long time . . . I just hope it can unfold on paper as well as it does in my mind!

Thanks again for your review! :)

And thank you everyone else for their reviews. If you log in to review, make sure to check your inboxes: I do try to respond to every review that I can. :)

And now for the next chapter. I hope you all enjoy it; with this chapter I OFFICIALLY am breaking the 200k word mark! :D:D

* * *

Chapter 48: A Room of One's Own

* * *

_Now:_

Rogue stirred slightly, giving a soft groan as she lifted a hand to her forehead.

A hand touched her clothed shoulder and she opened her eyes to see Logan looking down at her. His face looked a bit blurry, but she could see his frown, the wrinkle between his eyebrows, the dead-seriousness of his eyes as he caught her gaze.

She blinked, clearing her vision as she breathed in deeply. It felt like she'd been holding her breath for an hour; the air tasted like heaven.

"Who died?" she asked as soon as she could, her own brow furrowing as she struggled to remember.

"_You_ almost did, ya little pain in my butt," Logan said. "Scared the life half outta me." His voice sounded weird; deeper than usual, tired.

"Really?" Rogue said, rubbing her eyes. "Cool." She blinked again, making to rise up on her elbows, but Wolverine caught her shoulder. "Whoa. Not too fast, kid."

"Ah'm fine," Rogue said—and it was true. In fact, she felt almost _too_ good. Her mind felt clear, she felt rested, and now that her eyes were clearing she felt fit enough to face the Hulk and still have energy to run a marathon afterwards. She reached up to brush Logan's hand away—but she caught herself. Her hands were bare, but something had dried on her right palm. She looked down, frowning at the blood smeared over her hand, and looked sharply over at Wolverine—finally seeing him properly for the first time. "Yah idiot!" she gasped, horrified as she saw his face clearly. His right eye was swollen shut, and his face was pale beneath the dark bruising. His shirtfront was scarlet with red blood; not even dried, and she wondered how much of that was fresh. "What'd you do?" Wolverine opened his mouth, but Rogue was already off the table, glowering down at him. "Look at yourself! Ya can barely stand and you're _touchin' me_! Ya need t'heal yourself, ya big buffoon!"

"I wouldn't be so hard on him," a cool voice interrupted, and Rogue looked sharply over at an unfamiliar blond woman as she opened the med lab and stepped in. "It's likely he saved your life."

"And who the hell're you?" Rogue said, in a mood.

"Another person who saved your life."

Rogue's eyes narrowed, and she whipped back to Wolverine, who had opened his mouth, but she cut him off. "Are you healing?"

"I'm healin'."

"_Don't_ even think about lyin' to me!" Rogue ran over him. "This is the second time you've almost died because of me."

"I'm _healin'_," Logan repeated, a bit sharply, but it lacked the energy and force as he remained seated next to the bed, leaning on it a shade too much. "'Sides, this time _you're_ the one that saved my ass. I was just returnin' the favor."

"Wanna tell me what's goin' on, then? And who _she_ is?" she nodded towards the stranger in the room again.

"Emma Frost. Telepath." She looked down at her hands, straightening her white gloves disinterestly. "Wolverine invited me here to help. After your absorption of the vampire—a foolish, rash move, by the way—your psyche was weakened enough that Carol Danvers made a move to take over, and in the process both of you almost died."

"Carol," Rogue repeated, her eyes turning inward. It was strange, but she'd almost forgotten her.

"Don't bother looking for her; I've buried her deep enough that she shouldn't give you any trouble—for now, at least. No wall is impenetrable."

Rogue looked up at Frost again. "She's still here," she said, mouth suddenly dry. "Her memories, her feelings . . . ."

"Of course she is, haven't you been listening?" Frost said coldly. "I bound her personality. But she's still _there_, just like any psyche you've absorbed for a significant length of time. Just like Wolverine."

"What?" Logan spoke up, his gaze sharp as he looked between them. "You said I faded after a while."

Rogue glared at Emma Frost before turning to Wolverine. "You do. I mean, it does. Except—never mind." She shook her head, changing the subject. "Whatever you two did, it worked; I feel like myself for the first time in days." For the first time in days, she knew exactly who she was. Marie. Rogue. She knew which memories were hers, which emotions—even if the other memories were still there: flickering, calling.

"No 'never mind,'" Logan insisted, rising up from the chair, but discretely leaning against the table to keep himself on his feet. "What'd'ya mean, Frost, that I'm still in there?"

Rogue shot daggers out of her eyes at the blond bitch, then turned back to Logan. "It doesn't matter." She knew he hated that she'd absorbed him even for that short amount of time. If he knew how much of him remained with her . . . .

"Rogue . . . ."

"Listen, every person I absorb . . . a little bit sticks around, okay? Just a little bit. Not a big deal."

"On the contrary," Frost put in, then looked at Rogue, as if realizing something. "Oh. You don't remember, do you?"

"Remember what?" Rogue snapped, out of patience with this telepath who had been running around in her head and was now being _far_ too open with the details—but then she stopped, her mouth snapping shut as it came back to her like a smack in the face.

_Remembering being in her mind. Remembering the clawing hands of ghosts grabbing at her, trying to tear her apart. Cody, her first boyfriend. Magneto. The coroner at the lab. All tearing, screaming, fighting—and Carol Danvers, her hands stronger than all the rest as she screamed at her, ripping her into pieces._

"Rogue?" Logan interrupted, and Rogue blinked, turning towards him as she remembered.

_Remembered a sudden snarl in the chaos. Remembered the hands falling away, and Carol Danvers being knocked away as hands strong as steel caught her—but they weren't angry, weren't cold or harsh. They pulled her away, more substantial than the ghosts—almost as solid as Ms. Marvel as he fought at her side—_for _her._

"_Enemies ain't the only people you've absorbed, Marie," Wolverine's essence had echoed into the chaos, and grinned ferally at her. His eyes were wild, and it might have been terrifying—but the rage in them were not at her. "I've got your back, kid."_

The shadow of Wolverine in her head had wrapped around her psyche, making her stronger than she could ever be alone.

"You saved me," Rogue said, looking at him. "I don't know how it happened, but—you saved me."

At Wolverine's uncomprehending look, Frost elaborated. "The part of you that she absorbed was enough to help keep the other personalities at bay—at least until I could arrive. Without that, I'm afraid irreparable damage would have been done to her mind before I could reach her."

Logan shifted uncomfortably, and Rogue marveled how he could be half bled to death and still have the presence of mind to begrudge his heroic status. She reached out, about to take his hand, but at the last moment remembered her lack of gloves and simply reached out to wrap her arms around him.

Wolverine pulled back sharply—taken aback by the action, and Rogue discretely held up him upright as she could feel his balance buckle. One more reason to be glad of her super strength.

"Thanks," she said, pulling back. "Now go get some rest, ya lunkhead, or I'll drag you up there myself."

Logan grunted. "Next time ya go try t'kill yourself, remind me to keep ya under a few more hours," he said, heading to the door. He glanced back at Jubilee, and thought he saw her eyes flicker, but maybe he'd just imagined it.

Emma Frost followed him out, and he glanced at her. "What?" he said bluntly.

"I was hoping you had mind enough to show me to a room. Refreshed as your southern flower may be, reconstructing a person's mind is quite draining for a telepath, let me assure you." She tilted her head, looking at him critically. "And maybe you'll need me to carry you if you can't make it up to your room without falling down the stairs."

That surprised a chuckle out of him. "Heh. Keep your day job, Frost," he said, straightening. "Wouldn't want ya breakin' a nail." He ignored the slices of pain echoing through his bones as he led the way to the elevator.

"Elegance does not imply weakness," Frost replied, idly looking down at the back of one of her silk gloves again. "Consider a diamond. Unbreakable, yet beautiful."

"Yeah, whatever," Wolverine muttered. His brain was buzzing. Making it hard to think. It'd been easier when he'd been waiting—keeping an eye on Rogue. Easy to focus on just making sure she was okay. Now that that was done, his brain felt like a channel of static: searching for a channel but only managing to catch glimpses before they roared away into chaos.

"She doesn't hate you, you know."

Wolverine glanced at Frost, who'd come to walk beside him. "Come again?" he said, his voice rough.

"The other girl. She doesn't hate you."

It took a second for his battered brain to fix on her meaning. "Jubilee? You read her mind, Frost?"

"What if I did? Are you going to kill me, Wolverine?" Her tone hadn't changed—still cool and sophisticated. They could be holding a conversation about the weather over tea for all her concern.

Wolverine glared at her, wondering if she was mocking him. Then he decided he was too drained to care. He slammed his hand against the elevator button and stepped in as the door opened. "Close enough," he muttered, thinking of Jubilee.

"You surprised her today."

He grunted wordlessly, hoping she'd get the hint to let it go.

Proving her intelligence once again, she did.

* * *

_Then:_

_He was blinded; black pressed against his streaming eyes, piercing like needles as he felt hot blood like tears stream from behind the agony of his eyelids. He snarled and struggled, but he couldn't hear his own voice—couldn't even feel his hands. Just smelled the taste of his cold metal blood. A weight like death hovered over his lungs—pressing down on him. Too heavy. Too heavy. Couldn't breathe. Choking on the smell of blood and men and hate and burning cleanser as green liquid filled his lungs. Drowning again. Drowning as he gasped in panic, only to breathe in acid as it cut his lungs like glass. He screamed. The tinkle of glass and casual talking choked his ears, laughing over his body. Laughing as he screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed . . . . _

Wolverine jerked upright with a gasp, eyes flying open to complete darkness. Something was over his throat—choking him, holding him down, and he popped his claws, shredding it. The scent of his own blood colored the air as he scrambled from the cot.

Metal. Metal under his feet, he could smell it in the air. So familiar, so cruel.

A sound—half snarl, half scream ripped from his throat and he ran forward, ripping through the walls and cringing into the light like a newborn as he ran down the metal corridor, memories of blood like rain gouging his eyes and clogging his throat as he fled.

* * *

Rain pattered on the rooftop and the window panes—a soft white noise that filled the dark silence comfortably, like a murmuring lullaby.

_Rrrring. Rrrrrring. _The phone rattled the silence: unbalancing it, shattering it.

"—the heck?" James Hudson muttered, lifting his head slightly from his pillow.

_Rrring._

"James?" Heather murmured, uncurling from his arms.

He mumbled something incomprehensible in return, then swung his arm over and grabbed the phone. "Hello?" he said, rubbing his eyes.

Heather could hardly hear the tinny voice on the other end of the line, but suddenly James' eyes widened and he bolted upright. "What? How?" he demanded.

"What's wrong?" Heather asked, immediately alert at his tone.

Mac held up a hand to stay her questions as he listened. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Uh huh. Uh huh. Damn. Okay. Okay. Weapon Alpha will be active as soon as we can get there. Keep sweeping, but _do not_ engage, do you understand? If you find him, keep your distance. You read the report of what the kid said about what happened in the forest. Okay. Keep me updated."

He was already moving as he hung up the phone, grabbing a pair of pants from the dresser and pulling them on.

Heather shadowed him, not a moment behind. "Wolverine?" she asked, fearful of the answer but somehow already knowing something had happened.

"He and the boy are gone."

"What?"

"Put your shoes on in the car," James said, still in the act of pulling on a t-shirt as he strode from the room. Heather grabbed her shoes and followed, pulling her hair into a rough ponytail after fumbling with her glasses.

"James. _What happened?"_ Heather demanded as she climbed in the car and James pulled out of the driveway and began speeding towards base. "People don't just . . . _walk_ out of a government facility. I thought they were secure."

"They _were_," James emphasized. "Gambit didn't even blast the lock—it looks like it was jimmied. He even stopped by to visit Wolverine before he left—besides that, the only footage we have of him is passing through the seventeenth corridor at 1:47 am. They didn't even notice him missing until Wolverine made his move twenty minutes ago. He broke the camera and knocked out three guards patrolling the area, but somehow he cut the security feeds—by the time they got them up, he'd vanished."

"He didn't kill anyone?" Heather clarified, feeling something in her chest loosen a hair.

"No casualties."

"Thank God," Heather breathed, leaning her forehead against the cold glass of the window as she looked out at the rain. Her breath fogged up the glass, and she used her hand to wipe it away.

* * *

James didn't stay with her when they got to the base. He bolted out of the car towards his labs, and Heather almost followed before stopping herself. He had his way to help, but she'd only get in the way if she followed.

She headed in another door instead, grabbing a soldier and demanding a more detailed status report before having him take her to Wolverine's room.

Her shoes and the soldier's boots were loud in the corridor as they headed deeper into the base. Red lights flashed as now-silent alarms along the walls, and soldiers hustled past in pairs. Heather paused at the sight of blood smeared across the floor, and the soldier followed her gaze.

"Two soldiers taken down. Didn't even see what hit them. He busted one guy's nose and cracked the skull of the other's—their guns ripped to shreds."

_No casualties_, Heather reminded herself, swallowing thickly and remembering the first time she had seen Wolverine—that first day, when he'd attacked her and Mac from the forest. Bloodshot eyes—skin stained with blood.

She shivered, and then shook herself, pushing away the memory. It seemed so long ago.

But what had happened? Had Wolverine just decided that he didn't like it there, and flown the coup? Had he decided he didn't trust all this after all, and simply let loose?

No. He wouldn't have done so little damage if he had.

"Here," the soldier said, nodding to the door. "Cut right through the lock. They think it was with his . . . claws."

The door was open a crack, and Heather reached out and pulled it open.

The room was lit with a tinny, flat exposure that sapped away whatever color might have been in the room—turning it all to metal and light. The small bed in the corner wouldn't have looked out of place in a prison cell.

She stepped in slowly, looking around—her mouth suddenly dry. The floor was sprinkled with a spray of blood and a smudged bare footprint where Wolverine must have stepped in it. The bed was shredded—the sheets torn in pieces and pulled halfway across the room, as if they had caught at Wolverine as he'd ran to the door.

"_This _is where they had him sleep?" Heather asked, stepping into the barren room and looking around.

"Standard quarters, miss," the guard answered from the doorway.

"Standard?" she repeated, a bit sharply. "And the lock?"

"Basic security."

Heather just shook her head, looking away from him and back at the walls.

There were three long gashes beside the bed, and the wall to her right look liked Wolverine had tried to shred right through it—the twisted metal from the attempt was spattered with blood.

Heather swallowed, stepping forward to pick up a bag of beef jerky; it was open and more than half-empty, and it made her heart clench. She straightened, still holding the bag as she looked around the room.

The boots they'd found for him at the base were still at the foot of the bed—he hadn't even bothered to take them.

He hadn't planned for this. He hadn't become angry or bored or nervous. She could see that.

He'd had another nightmare.

Another nightmare, like she'd seen that one night—with Wolverine half out of his mind with terror. He'd woken up in a cage and he'd only thought of one thing: escape.

_This is my fault_, she realized. It was a miracle he'd held on as long as he had before he snapped. She'd _known_ how much whatever had been done to him still affected him. She'd _known _about how much he hated being trapped.

Her eyes dropped to the thin-padded bed, and the wool blanket that had fallen to the floor and lay there, tangled. She closed her eyes.

_She'd known about his nightmares._ And even if she didn't know exactly what had happened to him, she could only imagine how it must have been to wake up in such a place.

Heather opened her eyes, reaching up to wipe a single tear away. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

She kept the packet of jerky, turning to the door.

What would this undo? Did he go back to his feral state? Return to the wild—let that hopeful, wide-eyed man who called himself Wolverine disappear forever?

But he'd gotten away, and he'd done it without killing anyone. If that wasn't a sign of hope, nothing was.

Heather headed down the hallway, determined that she would not let the man known as Wolverine down again. She'd find him.

TBC . . .


	49. Truth or Consequences

Howdy, crew. Sorry about how I've been completely MIA . . . again. No real excuses except the usual—RL, and everything that comes with it. I always seem to get really thrown off of my normal writing schedule around the holidays.

Enough with the niceties, and on to the chapter. This chapter has caused me soooo much grief. I had it 99.9% written back in October, but when it came down to the week I was going to post it, I read through it and was very dissatisfied with it. So I trashed the whole thing, started over, and rewrote 5000 words for it. . . . and then realized that while the writing was better, the tone and events just didn't fit in for this part of the story. So I trashed it _again_, returned to the first draft, and revised, revised, revised. Hopefully it pays off and this section is at least okay. I'm still a bit wishy-washy about it.

This part is dedicated to a friend of mine, Carcajou, who got me out of bed and whipped me back into shape. Otherwise it would have been another couple weeks before this chapter saw the light of day. :)

As always, THANKS FOR ALL THE REVIEWS! You are all the reason I keep coming back to this, even with life as busy as it is. Please take a few seconds after reading to drop a note—even if it's short. I'm trying to break 500 reviews in the next bit! ;)

ENJOY!

* * *

Chapter 49: Truth or Consequences

* * *

_Then:_

The rain didn't stop all day. It varied in intensity, though: drizzling languidly at times—barely a mist as it hovered over the base, as if too lazy to move along—but lashing out furiously now and again as if making sure it hadn't lost their attention. The low clouds hid the rising sun and made the whole sky look like the sun was too tired to show up for the day: calling in for sick leave in the face of the wet and cold. Grey skies and brown mud was thick over everything—churning through wheels, dragging down boots and spirits. Heather had joined the search, but after a couple of hours in the cold and wet her husband caught her directed back inside to get a dry set of clothes and some coffee before she made herself sick.

They used dogs to track him to the perimeter. Wolverine had sliced through the fence cleanly, and the dogs followed him into the woods where they lost his scent. The handlers made the dogs run the trail again, but they couldn't pick up on him. Wolverine was gone without a trace.

James flew around in his half-completed tech-suit—the forcefield-protected flight-enabled suit called Weapon Alpha—scanning high and low for miles into the woods until his energy ran low. He returned, walking down the busy corridors in his white-and-red maple leafed suit. He changed in his lab, hooking it up to recharge before going meet Heather in the radio center where she was hovering. He placed a kiss on top of her head as he pulled her close. Her hair was still damp from the rain.

"We'll find him," he said

"How far could he have gone?" Heather said without looking away from the rain-battered window. She sounded as if she were simply giving voice to an inner discussion that had been ongoing in her mind for some time. "I have no idea how fast he can run—it could be normal, or far off the chart. I have no _idea _how far his mutant ability stretches. Healing, claws . . . ? And _where_ would he have gone? Certainly not to the city, which leaves the forest . . . ." She turned, looking up at her husband for the first time. "Are you _sure_ you didn't pass by him?"

Mac tapped the side of his head with his bandaged hand. "The suit has infrared. Anything with body heat shows up clear as fireworks at night, especially in this weather."

"And his body temperature tested _above _normal by three full degrees. Unless that changes too . . . ."

James put an arm around her. "All right, hon. It's time to go."

"We have to _keep looking_," Heather said. "If we've done a sweep fifty miles out with no luck, he could be _twice _as far tomorrow—or farther, if his healing factor makes it so he doesn't have to stop and rest . . . ."

"There's _nothing we can do _now, all right? It'll take at least four hours for my suit to recharge—it's a miracle it lasted as long as it did, in its unfinished condition—and everyone else is doing as much as they can. They'll call us if they pick up a trail."

Heather nodded wearily, breathing in shakily. "What if we don't find him, James?"

"We'll find him." With his tech and the amount of personnel, it was only a matter of time.

Heather shook her head slightly. "You don't understand. He's _at home_ in the woods. I think that _no one_ can find him if he doesn't want to be found. From observation, it seems that he has enhanced senses—hearing, scent . . . who knows what else. I've never seen anyone so at home in the wild, and to think that he probably lived out there all winter. Think about what temperatures he must have had to face—and without insulation or clothing. He could have been out there for _years_ before he ran into us." She sniffled softly—whether from the cold or fighting tears, he didn't know.

He led her to the car, patiently listening to his wife go on and on about any information that could even _possibly_ be useful in the search.

She was still going on when they pulled up to the house and climbed out, but while her topic had strayed from Wolverine's skills in the wild and his abilities, it had hardly moved from the topic of Wolverine himself. Mac put a hand in the small of her back as he guided her up the paint-chipped porch steps in front of him. "I went into the room . . . . And leaving him there alone—did you see the walls? He must have had a nightmare, woken up disoriented, and panicked—"

She stopped, one foot on the top step. "James . . . ."

He followed her gaze. The faded front door was closed loosely; the bolt had been cut cleanly through, and a thin slice of the doorframe was missing near the doorknob.

Heather stepped forward, throwing the door open. "Wolverine?" she called, stepping in without bothering to shake off the rainwater. "Wolverine—"

He was sitting in her living room, slumped on the couch with his bare feet pulled up beneath him as he watched the hockey game going down on the tube. He didn't seem bothered that his hair and clothes were soaked, or by the gust of bone-chilling air that followed them in the front door. Wolverine glanced up as they came in and put down the beer he'd been drinking next to the empty cans on the table. "Hey," he said softly.

He always spoke softly—almost like if he spoke too loud it'd hurt his own ears.

"What are you _doing_ here?" Heather cried. He flinched slightly at the loud noise. "We've been looking everywhere—worried _sick_—"

James came over to the couch and leaned over to grab the last unopened beer resting on the coffee table. "How're we doing?"

Wolverine glanced at him briefly, his shoulders hunching slightly, and Mac got the distinct impression that Wolverine was uncomfortable by his proximity, but the feral man didn't move. He looked back to the TV. "Dunno." There was a beat. "Who's 'we'?"

"—and find you, _drunk_. Did you drink _all _of this?" Heather continued, gesturing to the beer cans scattered over the coffee table and floor.

Wolverine looked at her calmly and shrugged.

"I don't think he can get drunk, honey."

Heather's rant was broken at that. "Oh," she said, distracted by the thought. "Of course. His body probably reacts to poisons like it does any injury or chemical imbalance, including _alcohol_—"

Wolverine was watching her quizzically.

"'Who's we'?" Mac repeated Wolverine, coming to sit down on other side of the couch. But as he was about to slump into the seat, he heard something crunch under his feet. He looked down and, to his credit, only paled a hair as he saw the ripped-up fur and the meat-stripped bones under his shoes. He recovered quickly.

"That's it," Mac declared. "You aren't going to pass another day without learning these three vital skills, Wolverine. First, you don't need to hunt, or eat this stuff . . . uncooked. Secondly, if you do—don't leave it on the floor. And last but most important, we are rooting for the Calgary Flames—the red jerseys."

James sat down, grabbing the remote and turning up the volume. "That too loud?" he asked.

Wolverine shrugged.

"You boys are impossible," Heather said, exasperated, but glad Wolverine was all right and in what seemed to be a good state of mind—and James was doing all he could to keep him that way. "You should call the base, James."

"Yeah," Mac replied, not looking away from the screen.

Heather rolled her eyes. "I'm going to fix some dinner. You two want anything?"

"Love some."

"Wolvie?"

He looked up from the tube. "Eh?"

"Dinner?"

"Sure."

The two men sat in silence. Wolverine drained off the last of his beer and glanced back towards the sound of Heather in the kitchen. A drop of water slid down the side of his face from his hair and he wiped it away absently.

"So what happened?"

The words were soft, but Wolverine heard them clearly. He looked over at the man James, who was watching him openly.

Wolverine shrugged. "Needed some air," he said, reusing a phrase Heather had taught him just a few days before.

Not a perfect answer, but the man nodded, accepting it with a soft, "Fair enough." Wolverine relaxed a hair. "What about Remy?"

"Headin' home."

"Not safe for a boy his age."

Wolverine shrugged again at that: he wouldn't know. "Kid can take care'a himself."

James shrugged back, turning back to the game. "I guess you'd know."

Wolverine watched the game, but he was distracted by the smell from the kitchen—food, and Heather.

Wolverine shifted, wanting to talk to the man, but he wasn't looking at him. Wolverine frowned.

That's right. The name thing. To be able to get a person's attention.

"James," he said, and managed not to grimace around it. The name tasted funny on his tongue, but it worked; the man turned towards him.

"Call me Mac, Wolverine. Most people do around here."

"Mac," Wolverine repeated. Whatever. The kid had had two names too—Remy. Gambit. Maybe most people did. But then he stopped, not sure how to say what he wanted to ask.

Heather had said it was their anniversary. That the man James—Mac—was her husband. He'd seen them touch each other—seen him hug her, seen them . . . . _kiss_, was the word. Heard the words.

_I love you_, Heather had whispered, but it'd burned Wolverine's ears like fire, and he didn't know why.

No, Wolverine realized. Even if he knew _what_ he wanted to ask, he knew he wouldn't be able to ask the man next to him.

Mac was still waiting, watching him, and Wolverine cast his mind out for something else to say. He looked down at the man's right hand—wrapped thick with some sort of hard bandage through his fingers up his wrist.

"What is it?" Mac asked.

"What happened?" Wolverine asked, pointing to the injury. "Your hand."

Mac smelled surprised, but his voice didn't reflect it. "You don't remember?" he asked, still calm but with a cautious note to his words.

_You don't remember?_

The words hit him like a brick and he pulled back into himself.

_What had he forgotten this time?_

Mac had been wearing the cast when he'd shown up in the helicopter. Then it must've been before—when he'd been running in the woods. He'd heard the kid, smelled the humans, lunged forward. He remembered the shock and blindness of the gunshot to the head, remembered the man, drawing back his fist and punching him in the face, then falling back . . . .

He'd broken his hand on his face.

Wolverine looked up, remembering—though it was through a veil of haze.

"Oh. Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Mac said, relaxing again back into the couch as Heather came in, holding two plates. "Teach me to punch a guy with metal bones."

"Just sandwiches," Heather said, coming around the couch. "I'm too tired to fix up anything fancier."

"Looks just fine, hon," Mac said, taking the plate and tilting his face up to kiss her briefly. Wolverine shifted, but took his own plate.

"Thanks," he said softly.

"I'm just glad you're okay," Heather said, coming around and sitting on the couch arm next to Mac. She bit her lip. "Wolverine, I'm _sorry_. I should have asked if you were okay where you were. I should have known."

Wolverine looked down at his sandwich and shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

"Next time you want to leave, you can just ask," Mac said with a slight smile. "You weren't being held prisoner, you know."

Again, just a shrug for a response.

Heather hovered uncertainly—the silence was heavy, even with the sound of the hockey game in the background. "Do you want to talk about it?"

A shake of the head. "It's fine," Wolverine said, picking up his sandwich and taking a bite out of it. He paused, his brow furrowing. "Mmmm," he murmured, shutting his eyes briefly as he savored the taste of a simple sandwich.

Mac looked at him oddly, and Heather couldn't help but smile. Enhanced senses—who knew how that affected his sense of taste? And after living in the wild with nothing but raw meat to eat?

"One sec," Mac said, leaning over and picking up the phone from the side table next to the couch. Wolverine opened his eyes to watch curiously as he dialed a number and held the phone up to his ear. "Hey, it's me. He's here. Found his way to my place. No, don't worry about it; we'll keep him here, if it's all right with Heather—" He looked over at his wife, who looked at him, then at Wolverine, and then nodded. "All right. I'll report in the morning." He hung up the phone.

"We'll set you up in the spare room," Heather said. "Kind of overrun by books, but there's a bed. Would that be okay, Wolvie?"

"Huh?" he'd missed whatever had just happened.

"Do you want to stay here, with us, or go back to the base?" Mac asked. "It's fine with us if you want to stay."

Wolverine looked at Heather. "I'll stay," he said softly.

"It's all settled, then," Mac said, picking up his own sandwich and settling back. Heather slid next to her husband, and he put an arm around her shoulder as they all sat on the sofa and watched the rest of the game together.

* * *

_Now:_

_He walked into the bar, his shoulders hunched in his jacket, his eyes down. A grunt answered the bartender's offer for his usual, and when it came he went and sat in the darkest, most reeking corner and nursed the bottle._

_Not like it would do him a bit of good, though. Tasted like piss—just like this place stank. Piss and vomit and rats._

That's all that ever came here, anyway. Rats and refuge.

_He tilted his head back, guzzling half the bottle and not even feeling a slight buzz at it. He wiped his mouth, not caring enough even to grimace at the taste._

_The people around him didn't matter—hell, even he didn't matter anymore. It was easier just to sit here, grow deaf with the roar of drunken rednecks and the hum of the cheap TV buzzing in the corner—more static than not. To grow blind in the darkness, the stinging smoke of cheap cigars and pot from that guy in the corner. Numb his nose after the reek of the worst that mankind could throw at him._

_Numb._

Cause in here, he was just another washed-up bastard—no different from the rest of 'em.

_It was easier this way. Easier to forget, easier to stop being, and no one to care if he lost it and tore the whole place down on all their damn heads._

Probably thank me,_ he thought, lifting his mug and putting it to his lips to tip the rest of the cheap beer down his throat._

_But something was wrong—the beer kept coming, running down his throat, never emptying. He felt his lungs tightening, demanding air, but he kept drinking, drinking it all._

_He was drowning—he tried to pull the bottle away, but he couldn't—it was caught in his mouth, down his throat, biting into his lungs and choking him. He gasped automatically, and the bitter liquid gushed through his nose, pouring down over his face, biting his flesh like acid—like a million needles, plunged to his bones. Like fire, running over him as it jerked its hooks deeper into his flesh._

_He screamed, bubbles rising before him as he flailed in the green liquid, fighting for air—fighting for—_

What?

_Something pricked the back of his neck, and hot fire moved into his veins, and he wanted to fight it. Panic rose in his throat, bile mixing with the fluid that was drowning him, but he was weakening, the sharp, cutting pain fading as the green fluid around him turned dark—no, his eyes . . . _

_Why should he fight, after all? He'd been fighting so long. . . so long . . . _

_. . . he was so tired . . . _

_. . . so old . . . _

_. . . tired . . . _

_His eyes slid shut, his muscles relaxed to nothing, and he floated._

_After all, if they were the ones that were finally going to find a way to kill him after all of this. After all . . . _

Do it,_ was his last thought—and he didn't give a damn if it sounded like a plea—as he sank into blackness and forgetfulness._

* * *

Logan opened his eyes.

The dream echoed through him, weighing down his bones as if he were feeling their whole weight for the first time.

But something was missing.

His heart was thudding hollowly in his chest, vinegary fear was pungent in his mouth—but the rage—the fire, the consuming hate—wasn't there.

In its place was a grief—a wild, drowning grief like a name on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed wetly, feeling tears on his face for the first time. He reached up and brushed them away roughly.

_Do it._

He remembered rage and fear, but this was the first time he'd remembered feeling the loss. The despair. And in some ways, it made him sicker than anything.

They'd broken him, hadn't they?

He knew they'd made him into an animal, but he'd never imagined that they'd destroyed him so completely.

He sat up in bed, staring out into the darkness and wondering what they'd done to be able to shatter him into a million pieces.

* * *

Jubilee stopped in the shadows, looking at Wolverine's back where he stood on the moonlit balcony. She knew he knew she was there, but she still didn't move, and neither did he. Probably waiting for her to move on. Smoke drifted slowly over his head.

She took a deep breath, leaning slightly against the doorframe and holding her jacket close against the cold—she was still a bit light-headed from her run-in with Bloodscream. She shivered slightly against the cold, remembering.

_Alkali Lake._

"_Listen, mister," Jubilee said loudly, stepping forward in front of the younger kidnapped mutants behind her: drawing the soldiers' attentions away from them. Her hands were bound tight behind her back, and though the soldiers caught her arms she stared back steadily. "You've got yourself into a whole lot of trouble. Okay, you got the professor, but do you really think you can hold him? You should let us go right now before our friends track us down."_

"_The other mutants? I hope they will," Stryker said, glancing at her. "Take them out of here."_

"_Ever heard of Wolverine? He could track you to the moon and back, you know. He's coming for us."_

_Stryker looked up sharply from his panel, looking at her full-on for the first time. "You're looking to Wolverine to save you, mutant?"_

"_Heck yeah. He's gonna kick your butt six ways till Sunday."_

_Stryker had an odd look on his face as he stepped forward. "You like him," he said, sounding surprised by the realization. "You—what?—think he is some sort of warrior, perhaps? Some super-soldier?"_

"_He's a hero," Jubilee said boldly.  
_

"_A hero?" Stryker repeated, straightening. "A hero, hm?" He turned away. "Lock her in C7. The others go to the pit. Now!"_

_Jubilee tried digging in her heels, but it was pointless as they dragged her into a dark, damp room and strapped her onto a chair, then left, slamming the thick metal door behind them. The room stank like mildew and old iron._

_Jubilee began shaking as soon as they'd left, but she gritted her teeth. " C'mon, Jubes," she muttered, squeezing her eyes shut. "You've got this. You can do this." She opened her eyes, her gaze sweeping the small room before they settled on three familiar gashes that had been roughly patched up near the doorway. Her eyes widened and she stared at them, clearly recognizing what they were, if not what they meant._

_A bright light turned on, and Jubilee flinched as it bathed her in blinding light._

"_I'll be with you later, mutant." She recognized Stryker's voice again. "But this should keep you busy. "See, I know your 'hero' better than he knows himself. And we both know how much he hates to keep up pretenses. Enjoy the show."_

Jubilee blinked, jerking herself back to the present as she inhaled sharply. Cutting off the memories before they could really get started.

Taking a deep breath, she took a determined step forward. She leaned against the railing a few feet from him.

"Weapon X," Jubilee dove in without preamble.

Wolverine looked over at her. "Come again?"

"That's what they called you," Jubilee said, picking at a bit of peeling paint on the wood. "Weapon X, Experiment X. I did hear them call you Mr. Logan a couple times, but . . . nothing else. No first name, no whatever."

Logan blinked at her with his dark eyes. He breathed out a mouth of smoke, and darn that Jubilee couldn't tell a thing he might be thinking.

"Yeah?" he finally asked.

Jubilee felt lightheaded—though whether from her bout with Bloodscream or nervousness, she couldn't say.

Wolverine was watching her, and she felt sweat bead on her forehead.

She was going to do this. But how could she do this? How could she talk about this? How could she even begin?

"You weren't human," she blurted. Wolverine's eyes narrowed, and she shook her head. "You weren't! You didn't see that—they must have done something. You were . . . a machine. An animal. They had a . . . a _switch_, to turn you on and off, and make you d—do anything they wanted you to," she amended quickly.

"Make me do what?" Logan said, voice flat.

"Dance," she said quietly. "Like, with a remote. It was all . . . ulghy, like. Like Frankenstein." Wolverine looked at her as if she was crazy, and she shook her head quickly. "Never mind," she said. "Just—stuff. Like, there was this one time. They stuck you in this field, sicced wolves on you. And you . . . you, you know, killed them all, but then they just . . . like, flipped a switch and you just . . . turned off. Like a robot or something, you know? Just fell down . . . in the snow." Her voice cracked at the end, and she swallowed, trying to speak without pulling to her mind the blood on the snow, the _sounds_.

"They . . . shot you. Took . . . stuff, just to see how fast you'd heal. Sent you tracking—you once followed this guy, like, 30 miles in the snow and rain. Smelled him all the way, and you, you know . . . ." _Killed him. _No need to say the words.

"That all?" Wolverine asked, his voice still inflectionless—eyes still not looking at her.

"No," Jubilee whispered. "I saw you getting away."

Finally, a reaction: Wolverine shut his eyes. Jubilee swallowed thickly. "You remember?" she couldn't help but ask.

Wolverine opened his eyes, looking down at his hands, which he unclenched, staring at the backs of them. "So what? You just saw me killin' a bunch a' guys?" he asked, not answering her question

Jubilee couldn't look at him. "That Doctor— Cornelius. He—he tried locking himself away in a room, but . . . you came through the wall. Somebody—somebody called the professor. Soldiers. Lots and lots of soldiers," she ended, following Wolverine's gaze out across the yard.

"I just . . . you're unstoppable. Nothing stopped you. They, you know—shot you. Lots. They even hit you with a couple grenades, and you just . . . kept on coming. And then I started thinking that _nothing_ could stop you."

She fell silent. With the cold of the season, not even an insect broke the stillness of the night, and Jubilee felt as though the chill were trying to crawl through her layers of clothing and curl up around her bones.

She swallowed, clenching cold fingers against her sweaty palms. "Listen, I just—I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, okay? It's just . . . yeah. I dunno." He didn't move—looking across the frost-covered lawn. "You know what? Forget it." She looked back to the door, preparing to go.

"What made ya change your mind?"

Jubilee didn't answer immediately. What could she say? _Dude, you saved my life and almost killed yourself at the same time._ But it wasn't even that. The way they'd ripped into each other—she couldn't forget Wolverine's face, bloodlusting—that was what she would have expected. It fit exactly with what else she had seen of him.

No, it was beyond that. It was his expression when he'd leaped down the stairs and seen her there. Jubilee had seen him through a haze, but she'd never seen anything so terrifying as Wolverine's expression. And she'd never been so glad to see him.

It was the look on his face when Rogue had fallen—for the first time, she'd seen fear in his eyes.

It was the way he looked at Rogue. The way he'd refused to leave her side, even when he could barely stand himself. It was watching those horrible gashes on his face reopen as he pressed his hand into Rogue's: his expression pained, but beyond that—resolute.

The way he had watched her, as she drifted off to sleep in the medlab. Protective, even in the face his own exhaustion. Nothing violent or animalistic about it.

And one thing she knew—nothing good like that could have been created in that hellhole.

Jubilee shrugged. "I was just thinking," she admitted. "Rogue—this Ms. Marvel person recognizing you from, you know, _before_. I dunno, I used t'think that maybe you had been . . . _made_ or something, in that place. Like . . . some kinda experiment—not even a real mutant. But you were somebody before. I guess you just . . ." She swallowed. "Stryker said you volunteered, but maybe they lied to you, or something. Maybe . . ."

"I didn't."

Wolverine had been so quiet that the soft, but firm words caught her off guard. "Huh?"

"I didn't _volunteer_," Logan said, saying the word with a sneer. "I don't know how they dragged me into that place, but I sure as hell know that."

"Oh," Jubilee said. "So . . . he was lying." Wolverine didn't answer. She let out a long breath. "He was probably lying a whole bunch, Wolverine. I could tell—he hated you. He hated you more than he hated any of us for just being mutants." She smiled weakly. "You know, that's the whole reason he showed me all this. We were thrown in this place, and I got up and was all, like, 'Dude, Wolverine's coming to kick your butts.' I totally didn't know that he, like, _knew_ you, but then he got all pissed about it, you know? Started saying all these things, and I didn't believe a word. Told him to go screw himself. That's when he pulled me out and . . . showed me."

"Guess he just wanted me scared of you," Jubilee continued, softer. Wolverine had gone silent again—his expression was distant. She wondered if he was even hearing what she was saying. She swallowed, her mouth dry. "Anyway, I just thought . . . you deserved to know."

She let go of the banister, biting her lip as she turned away from him. She rubbed her hands together; they were almost numb from cold, and shaking. She shut her eyes tight, trying to push away the sickness in her gut as she tried to put the block back up on those memories—tied to a chair, hands in metal cuffs covering her palms, blocking her power as she tried to look away, tried to close her eyes. Tried to block out the sounds of it all—the cold, distanced voices of the doctors, the screams. . . the awful, dripping silence after his escape had left everyone dead.

"Kid?" Wolverine said gruffly. Jubilee looked back, hugging herself as her breath rose visibly before her face. He still didn't look at her, but she could see his face—half shadowed, half-lit by the blue-frost moon. He looked tired—exhausted, even. He looked healed enough in the dim light, but suddenly she wondered. She used to figure that he could walk away from any injury without missing a step, but standing there he seemed so much more . . . normal. Human. Even—Dare she even think it?—vulnerable. He pulled his cigar from his mouth. "Thanks."

It sounded like he was choking on the word, but Jubilee had to give him some credit. It must've been like pulling teeth for him to get that out, after she'd been treating him like dirt this whole time.

"Yeah, no problem," Jubilee said, trying for her usual flippant tone, but failing. She took a breath. "Listen—the doc and me, she's kinda put together what I remember. Said talking would help but . . . I can get you a copy, if you wanted me to." Silence. "I guess I'll . . . see you in the morning." Logan still didn't answer, so she pulled her jacket closer and went inside.

Logan didn't move until the door was closed and he heard Jubilee's footsteps fading with distance deeper into the house—until even he couldn't hear them. He drew back, pulling the cigar from his mouth—his teeth had ground the end flat.

He tossed it away, feeling sick.

Sick with rage, yes, but this was something else—compounding with his dream and making him feel like his chest was a gaping hole.

_They did something to you._

_Could turn you on and off, like some kinda machine or something._

_Shot you. Took stuff, just to see how fast you'd heal._

He shut his eyes his fingers digging into the palms of his hands as he bowed his head.

What was the matter with him? He knew what they'd done to him. Hell, he _remembered _enough of what they'd done to him.

_They made you . . . dance._

Dance?

Was that it? It wasn't enough that they'd destroyed his mind, stolen his body, raped him through and through—

-_but that they did it so . . . carelessly?_

Flippantly?

_They really didn't see him as anything, did they? Less than human, less even than an animal. Just a thing._

Had they really hated him so much? To not only erase who he was, but to destroy him so utterly and completely?

He gritted his teeth. He had known that they had made him an animal, but did they have that much control?

He looked down at his arms. They'd plated his bones with metal; what would have kept them from stringing through all sorts of electronics, making him into some Frankensteinish cyborg?

He had the sudden urge to rip back his skin, pull back his muscles—just to make sure it wasn't still in there. Wires, to control everything he did.

_Turn him off_, like a machine.

Or worse: flip the switch, and make him do whatever they wanted.

He pulled his arm down from his gaze, gritting his teeth. No. If they could control him they would have done so a thousand times before now. And the scans—the ones Jean took—they would have shown them, wouldn't they have? Not to mention the number of times he'd been blown to his bones before; he'd have seen them.

How long had they had him in there? Years? Rogue—Carol—had said that she hadn't seen him since he'd gone AWOL in 'Nam in '69. Is that when they'd nabbed him, and toyed around with his mind and body for years after?

He looked down at the smoldering remains of his cigar—a tendril of smoke was drifting slowly from its end.

But that wasn't all that was bugging him, was it?

He'd known Stryker and his clowns had done things to him—things that made him want to run off into the shadows of the woods and never look back, never think again. The specifics made him cold, but that wasn't what made him feel like his stomach was trying to claw its way up his throat with bile and rage and blood.

It was her having to see.

She'd seen it. Seen him an animal. Seen the part of him that was so raw and savage that it frightened himself.

She'd been—what? Twelve years old? And Stryker had sat her down and made her watch him tear apart everyone in that place.

He couldn't remember how many he'd fought there. He couldn't remember what it had been like—just the cold, his pain, his rage. But he remembered blood, and he'd gamble there had been gallons of it.

He could almost taste the bitter iron of it, cutting its way down his throat.

Logan spat in the bushes to the side of the steps and turned away, slumping down on the ground with his back against the frozen bricks of the house and feeling the cold begin to seep into his bones—slowly turning him to ice inside.

* * *

_There's somethin' that happens to ya when you've found yerself on the cold end of humanity. Somethin' that ain't gonna heal, no matter how fast the scars fade. Or even how much memory fades. Part'a ya has seen the dark side of people, and it's set you apart. Ya see things different. Ya see people different. The whole world is inside out 'n bleedin', and everyone else just walks on by—they can't see it, even when they try. Whatever it is—it isolates you. It cuts you off, so that even when yer standin' in a crowd, yer always gonna be standing alone._

TBC . . . .


	50. With Friends Like These

I had a very long author's note at the beginning of this chapter, but I decided that you wouldn't want to read so much. So here I am simplifying it. Yes, this story is still very much alive and kicking. I'm back from a fun summer of a Doctor Who renaissance and my first time at SDCC (soooo fun), and now that school has started back up I'm hoping that a schedule will help me get back on a schedule with my posting.

A small note on this chapter: This is not one of my favorite chapters, which is probably the main reason why it's been so long since I've posted. This chap was technically done in February, but I didn't like it so I rewrote, cut, pasted, edited, added, subtracted, multiplied, and divided . . . . Now at least it's semi-coherent, and does the job it needs to do even though I feel like it lacks a unity and a color that my chapters usually have. Still, hopefully it will be a bridge enough for you to enjoy and to help me advance the plot from the current rut. I have plans, and things *will* be picking up again within the next few chapters. :)

Thank you all for your reviews, especially the ones that have come over this long break. It's delightful to hear from old and new readers alike! Thank you for your support. This chapter, faithful readers, is for you.

* * *

Chapter 50: With Friends Like These

* * *

_Now:_

"Logan!"

Logan jerked upright, a snarl ready in his throat as his fists rose, but the sight of Jubilee standing at the door, leaning against the doorframe, made him still even as he felt his head spin in a thousand different directions.

He felt bruised and battered—not healed yet. What had it been this time?

Giant robots? Mutants or black-garbed commandoes? A big green monster? No . . .

Vampire.

That was it. Bloodscream. Vampire and Rogue, both draining his life away.

How the hell had his life become so screwed up that that wasn't even the weirdest option on his shortlist?

Jubilee was still talking. He squinted at her, focusing on her words.

"—Kitty and Ms. Frost, the new teacher person or whatever—they're like, _crazy_. Kitty totally freaked out and is like going to _kill her_ if you don't—Hey, did you sleep out here?"

"What?" Logan snapped—half asleep despite his heart going a mile a minute at the wake-up call. "Frost is going to—what? What the hell, kid?" His throat felt like he'd swallowed a razor.

He'd just been talking to her, before falling asleep. He'd been talking to the kid about . . . Oh yeah.

He grimaced.

"We've been looking, like, everywhere for you. It's almost lunch, you know, and Ms. Frost—when Kitty saw her she, like, _freaked out_, but Ms. Frost said you were out on the porch, so I came looking for you . . ."

Logan staggered to his feet, ignoring the aches from the cold of his bones as frost flecked off his jacket as he rose. He pushed past the kid, reaching out a hand to push open the door. He narrowed in on the angry voices immediately, and he strode forward—not running, but limping determinedly forward. He turned into the hall and stopped.

Kitty was standing knee-deep in the floor, her hands buried wrist-deep in the wall—clearly wrapped around Frost's throat, whose face was barely peeking through the wooden paneling. Her cool eyes flicked towards Logan as he came to a stop. He wavered slightly on his feet as he adjusted to being upright.

"Wolverine," Frost said dryly. "It's good of you to show up."

"Logan!" Kitty said his name like an accusation, turning sharply towards him. Frost gasped as she was jerked slightly through the wall, a hand holding onto the young girl's wrist as if to keep from falling further. "You _called her _here?"

"Kid, let the lady go."

Kitty's eyes flashed. "You really want me to? It'd be what she deserves. Do you know what she did? Do you?"

"I read the files," Logan said, the blood taste in his throat making his voice sharp. "Ya think I don't know what it means? But don't be stupid, kid. This ain't you."

"She's not staying here!" Kitty said, face flushed with fury. "She's as bad as Magneto, Logan. Worse!"

"I'm not sayin' she isn't. But I asked her here, and she helped Rogue outta a rough spot. Now Frost is stayin' as long as I say she is, got it?"

Kitty didn't move, eyes narrowing—challenging. Wolverine just looked back—not even bothering to find the energy to glare, but just stared back flatly. Kitty's eyes dropped and she stepped out of the floor, jerking Frost up with her and letting go of her. Emma dropped to her knees on the rug, bringing up a dainty had to rub her throat.

"I hate this!" Kitty spat. "Everything all messed up! The professor wouldn't have let her here. Scott wouldn't have—and Jean—" She bit off the name, swallowing thickly. "I hate this!" she repeated. She vanished into the wall, and Logan figured if she could have stomped while phased, she would have done it all the way up to her room.

Logan leaned against the wall, pressing a hand against his head to try and stop the pounding. "Damn," he muttered.

"Do you want me to go after her?" Jubilee asked.

"Sure, whatever," Logan muttered, feeling the throbbing all the way down to his bones. He felt like he was about to fall over, and the emptiness from the night before hadn't gone away. He could feel something damp and hot under his shirt, and knew without checking that he was bleeding again.

It looked like the injuries from the last few days had finally become too much for his healing factor.

Fight with the Avengers, thrown out of a 20-story window. Scraping with some crazy guy with metal arms, the fight with Bloodscream. Rogue—sapping the life right out of him. What was next?

No time to stop and rest. There never was. Had to keep going.

Jubilee turned to the stairs, but Frost took the lead. She had already gotten to her feet, brushing the last of any imaginary dust from her white pants and appearing as cool as ever. "Jubilee, you will report to the Danger Room. I believe your team had another session at 1?"

"Still?" Jubilee protested.

"Still. Surely you X-Men are used to continuing on one life-threatening event after another. Besides, I think that Ms. Pryde could use a few minutes to herself. Tell Dr. McCoy I will be down shortly. I would like to talk to Logan for a moment."

"Whatever," Jubilee said, turning away.

Logan leaned back against the wall, feeling heavy from the top of his head to his toes. "You sure you wanna stick around here, Frost?" he asked, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Don't be ridiculous. I had complete control of the situation."

"Uh huh," Logan said, lifting an eyebrow. Even that hurt. "And . . . what part of control involves gettin' yer head melded with the wall?"

"Kitty Pryde may hate me, but she's not like you or I. She couldn't kill even if she had to. You know that as well as I do."

Logan ignored that, rolling his shoulders. "Yeah, whatever. What's goin' on around here?"

"While you were curled up on the front porch Dr. McCoy, Mr. Wagner and I decided to run the students through a few team-vs-team training simulations—only the ones not on your main roster already. If things keep up as they have been, it would be wise to put together another team, just in case. You have some promising talent—though the team training has been dismal. I can't imagine there's been much of that."

"24 hours and yer already puttin' together your own team, eh, Frost?"

"With the supervision of your colleagues, of course. Beast would hardly allow it otherwise. But with my added leadership training and my experience in teaching and running a school . . . I don't see how you can afford to turn me away, Wolverine." She looked down at a white glove, straightening it needlessly. "And I'm sure you'll appreciate the help with classes."

"Classes?"

"Mr. McCoy said he can pick up mathematics and science tomorrow. Mr. Wagner will pick up with history and English, leaving you with your physical training—which I believe you prefer?"

"What about you?"

"Ethics and mutant relations."

Logan snorted, and immediately tasted blood. He swallowed thickly to keep from breaking into a coughing attack. Broke open the cut in his throat again, or was this from his gut? Or lungs?

His breath hitched at the pain, but he managed to swallow it.

Not like it mattered anyway—even if it did hurt like hell.

Whether Ms. Frost thought his grimace was at her or not, she ignored his reaction. "Rogue is doing well. She is up and about—though where to, I couldn't say. She flew off just after breakfast, and I thought it best if she have some space to get her mind sorted. I would like to keep an eye on her for the next few days—just to make sure she's stable."

"Yeah, okay," Logan rumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "But you listen, Frost—Kitty's been on the team long as anyone. Just 'cause I don't want her killin' ya doesn't mean I trust you. You put one toe outta line, you're gone."

"I would expect nothing less."

Logan grunted, making to step past her.

"Which just leaves . . . when are we going to talk, Wolverine?"

Logan raised his head wearily, squinting at her. He'd stepped into the sunlight from a window above, and it hurt his eyes. "What'd'ya mean?"

Emma Frost lifted a sculpted eyebrow. "I mean the fact that you have been hanging onto your sanity by a thread, and over the last few days you have felt even that begin to slip through your fingers." She considered him. "Do any of your X-Men even know?"

Logan's eyes narrowed to slits. "I told you to stay outta my head."

"And I said I would. But promising not to eavesdrop is completely different than promising not to hear what is being projected for everyone to hear. Your psychic defenses are admirable, Wolverine—astonishing for a non-psychic—but one hardly needs to be a telepath to notice this."

Logan looked away.

"I'm fine."

"When did it begin, Wolverine? Was it Alkali Lake? Or was it the psychic trauma from Jean Grey's death?"

Logan snapped around, grabbing Frost by the throat and slamming her against the wall. Her eyes widened as she gasped reflexively. "How—?"

"Don't you ever talk about her," Logan breathed.

"Good God," Emma Frost said, looking into his eyes. Her frosty exterior lifted for a moment in her surprise. "You actually loved her." The surprise faded to wry amusement. "You really have been a fox in the chicken coup, haven't you?"

Logan leaned close—baring his teeth. His breath smelled like blood

"You might think you're Ms. Fancy around here with your powers, Frost, but remember—I took down Jean, and I can take you down just as easy. You keep in line, or getting the boot is gonna be the least of your problems."

He let her go and stalked off, and Frost turned slowly, grimacing as she pulled her arm back around. She could already feel bruises forming from his grip.

She stared after the way he had left for a minute longer, then straightened invisible wrinkles in her white-as-snow outfit and turned away.

* * *

_Then:_

Heather woke up late. She sat up sharply, glancing at the clock as she saw the sunlight already shining clearly through the cracked doorway.

She stumbled out of bed, her husband's name already on her lips, but she stopped as she caught sight of a note next to the alarm clock.

_Long day yesterday. Thought I'd let you sleep. The general can talk to me if he's not happy about it._

_Took our little guy clothes shopping. Be back around 10._

_Love you sweetheart!_

_James_

Heather smiled, setting the note back and rising the rest of the way out of bed more slowly.

She showered, taking her time to get ready for the first time in months: she wasn't a morning person, but work called early, so she rarely had a chance to sleep in after 6 . . . which meant a ponytail and maybe a little makeup, if she found the time.

She was finishing pinning back her hair in a half-up when she heard the front door open.

"Heather?" James called.

"Coming!" Heather said, taking one more glance in the mirror before heading out to greet them.

James smiled when he saw her, coming forward to kiss her good morning. "Hello, beautiful." Wolverine had his back turned as he set a couple bags of clothes on the couch, but he turned around as she and James parted—and stopped, blinking at her.

"Morning, Wolvie," Heather said. "You sleep all right?"

He paused, then nodded. "Mornin', Heather," he said carefully, still watching her with an odd closeness. She guessed this _was_ the first time he'd seen her with makeup on—she hadn't bothered at the cabin—and maybe the first time he could remember seeing makeup on _anyone_. Suddenly she wondered what makeup even _looked_ like to somebody who hadn't been raised with it all around him—as a social expectation, really. Did it look silly, frightening, or just strange? She suddenly felt self-conscious, and ran a hand through her curled hair distractedly.

"What'd you find?" she said, hoping to distract both him and herself.

Wolverine shrugged, looking not particularly interested in what he had carried in.

"You look nice," she said, nodding to his new outfit and hoping it would draw out a more detailed response. Wolverine looked down at himself—tugging the plaid flannel of a new collared shirt straight over his t-shirt. His jeans still dragged slightly at the back of his solid boots (they looked like Wolverine-brand boots, which was funny, but Heather wasn't going to make it a point to ask). The pants fit nicely otherwise, though, and the length wasn't too bad. Heather figured she could hem them up a bit and they'd be perfect.

"Thanks," he said, running a hand through his hair. It still looked half-wild, but with his sideburns trimmed back and his new clothes, at least he looked . . . well, if not normal, at least passable.

"Apparently our man used to be a lumberjack," Mac joked. Wolverine glanced at him, clearly not understanding the humor.

They ate a late breakfast together—Wolverine ate half a dozen eggs on top of his stack of pancakes. Mac joked about how they'd be eaten out of house and home by the end of the week, but Heather didn't respond: she had glanced at the receipt from the clothes shopping and wished it was more of a joke. They had their funds, but it had taken all she had to get them to where they were. They were just going to have to keep stretching for a little longer until results were seen and the grants extended.

They headed to the base together. Wolverine climbed in the back seat, sitting a bit hunched over. He wouldn't put on his seat belt, but Heather let it slide. He stared out the car window at the grey sky, his nose flaring occasionally as if trying to catch a scent from the other side of the glass.

The place was slow for the late morning; they weren't bothered as Heather led the way to her lab, and Wolverine didn't say a word as he followed—his stance defensive and his eyes constantly roving.

"I'll leave you to it," Mac said, leaning over to kiss Heather's cheek. Heather smiled at him as he left, but it stayed on her face as she turned to Wolverine.

"We just thought we'd start out with some basic tests. Cardiovascular, basic numbers—weight, blood pressure. I've done the basics on a fair few of mutants before; it shouldn't take too long." She looked at him. "That is—if you're okay with this?"

Wolverine shrugged, and when it was clear that that wasn't enough he nodded, half-shrugging again. He gave her a look when she asked him to take off his boots, but kicked them off without a verbalized question, and shrugged off his plaid over-shirt as she led him to a scale. He frowned, shifting awkwardly as she tapped the weight on the scale to the right to get a reading.

"Okay. Freeze for a sec. There you go." She adjusted her glasses as she eyed the weight. "You're heavy for a little guy," Heather said as she gestured for Wolverine to step off the scale. He frowned at that.

"Little?" he repeated, obviously disgruntled.

Heather kept herself from smiling. "All right. Short. Hardly little."

Wolverine didn't look pacified.

He wandered a bit as she scribbled on her clipboard, his nose burning with the scent of the lab, his skin twitching . . . but it smelled like Heather. This was her place. Safe.

He stopped next to the wall, briefly scanning a sheet with a detailed breakdown of an eye's structure, and let his gaze trail to the pictures posted on the wall beside it.

He stopped there, his gaze lingering.

Heather came and stood beside him. "Fantastic Four," she said, gesturing to a newspaper clipping of four blue-garbed people—though one looked more monster than human: his skin was made up of jagged rocks, his body a bulky mass of stone. "They were the first superhero team to go public. Just a family that had an accident. Here, though—" Her hand touched the frame of a black-and-white photo almost reverently. "Captain America. Steve Rogers. The first super-soldier, perhaps first superhero, ever. The US is trying to pull together a team like they did during the war—calling it the Avenger's Initiative. It's a new time, Wolverine. A time for heroes." She smiled to herself, pulling back her hand.

"That's what Mac and I want to do. Start a team of heroes and save the world." The words were meant to have been self-depreciating, but there was an earnestness she couldn't hide. "It's why we're here."

She looked at him and suddenly her smile became embarrassed. "And look at me, after spending so much energy telling Mac not to try and recruit you. Though . . . it would protect you. Protect you from . . . whoever is after you. Whatever you're running away from." She trailed off, looking away, her cheeks still flushed slightly as she turned to a nearby file cabinet.

"But anyway, these are our candidates," she said, her enthusiasm carrying her. Heather unlocked it, flipping through the few files that sat barrenly in the drawer. "Self-proclaimed mutants. This one has the power of super-speed, endurance, _flight_. Of course, James and I have our eyes on a few friends of ours that we're hoping will be willing to come forward and join. A shaman and his daughter, for one. And James is going to lead." She paused. "Well, kind of. More of a figurehead, really. He's not a fighter, but his suit—you'll have to see it. It's amazing." She flushed again, biting her lip. "And here I am carrying on like a little girl. Sorry. It's just . . . we've worked so hard for it, and it's happening, Wolvie. It's going to come together soon, I just know it."

She put the file away, standing back and looking at the pictures of the Fantastic Four and Captain America with one more bright glance before turning back to her work. She smelled electrified . . . she smelled passionate. Wolverine drank it in, turning his senses to fire even as Heather dove back into business. He let it carry him.

Even if he could remember everything Heather had him do, he didn't understand half of them. Had him sniff a few vials—some were mild, some so vile he recoiled with a snort of disgust. Had him put some things over his ears and listen. He relaxed a hair as it went on, and he breathed easier. Even when he had had to lie still as he was scanned by that giant machine, this wasn't what he had expected it to be . . .

Though what he had expected, exactly, he wasn't sure.

Still, his arm had come away wet with sweat when he'd wiped it across his brow, and Heather hovered as if she were afraid he would bolt. He bit his tongue.

There was nothing to fear here. No cold. No pain.

Just that prickling on the back of his neck that wouldn't go away, and a faint taste of bile in his mouth that kept catching when he tried to swallow it.

Something in the air, maybe. The air was so close in here. It smelled like dust, even beneath the people and the lab. It smelled like paint and metal and plastic. No dirt. No earth. No life.

It smelled . . . empty.

She asked him to run on the treadmill, hooking a couple sensors to his bare chest and his wrist. He watched her, wary the whole while. But when she asked him to run he looked at her, tilting his head.

"Why?" There was no danger, no food that needed to be caught. No place to go.

"We want to see your endurance and heart rate."

He blinked at her. Brow furrowed. His perpetual frown deepened a hair.

"For me?"

Wolverine paused another moment.

_Why not?_

He rose up and climbed onto the treadmill.

"If you get too tired, just tell me and we'll stop, all right?"

"Right." He frowned at the flashing red lights on the panel in front of him, the feeling of vague uneasiness growing at the sight of them. He gritted his teeth, punching up the speed and diving into it.

"What've we got?" James asked, coming into Heather's office with a cup of coffee for her. She took it gratefully, not looking away from the glass and Wolverine beyond.

"He's been running an hour. Started out a jog, but I've accelerated it—he's been keeping a steady pace of little under a flat out sprint for fifteen minutes. And his heart rate is steady around 130."

"Resting?"

"Forty-five bpm, though with how on edge he is, I wouldn't be surprised if that's not entirely accurate."

Mac gave a low whistle.

"Yeah."

He shook his head, glancing over towards the steady strides. "What else?"

It was Heather's turn to shake her head. "He weighs 287 pounds, but even comparing to how he looked last week . . . he hardly looked weak, but with his food consumption and how he must have been living off next to nothing all winter, if not long before that . . . my guess is his healthy weight is going to reach a good 300. At only 5'3", I'm thinking that at least 100 of those pounds has got to be foreign—even with his build."

"Are you saying he's got 100 pounds of that metal in him?" Mac repeated, leaning forward as he looked through the glass. "How is he even staying upright?"

Heather shrugged. "It's just conjecture. It's not like we can weight it separately: it could be that his bone mass is greater due to his mutation. Or even his muscle mass, though that's not scanning any differently on the scans. Or perhaps just his weight. But I asked him if the metal covered all of his bones—I didn't think he'd know, but I figured there was no harm in asking—and he said he didn't know, but that he thought so. Kept looking at his leg, too—I think he must've . . . seen part of his bone, sometime. Maybe during that attack Remy told us about. Though I can't imagine . . . ." Heather trailed off. She shook her head slightly, looking back at her husband. "Any sign of him, by the way?"

"Vanished off the map," Mac said. "Even managed to get a hold of a SHIELD rep; if they'd caught even a glimpse of him, they aren't talking. The kid has disappeared." He followed her gaze to the man outside the window. "You sound like there's more."

"Yes. We'll confirm the metal once the X-Rays come back, but . . . he's a miracle, Mac. Type O- blood: a universal donor, with an unusually high level of white blood cells and platelets, but I expected that. I suspect that he has enhanced senses—olfactory for certain, and hearing. He has the hearing range 40 hertz to approximately 65,000 hertz: he has as good a range and sensitivity as a bloodhound—and though I haven't tested the sensitivity extensively, I suspect he has as good a sense of smell as well. How else could he have found our home last night?"

Mac grinned suddenly at that, glancing towards the sound of the running man again, but Heather caught his arm. "Don't even think about it."

"What?"

"If you get a dog whistle and bother him, you'll be sleeping on the couch."

"A dog whistle? Where did you get such an idea?" Mac said—too innocently.

Heather just shook her head.

He looked over at Wolverine again, sobering. "You find out what that metal was?"

"No," Heather said. "He let me look at one of his claws, though I could tell he didn't like it. I tried to take a scrape off the edge—I couldn't even mark it with a diamond drill. I'm starting to wonder if I had it wrong: maybe it's part of his mutation, too. Unbreakable metal," she mused, looking over at him, deep in thought.

"What about his healing?"

Heather looked at him. "The fact that he doesn't have a scar after getting . . . shot—" She managed no more than a slight waver, "—in the head and chest three times just last week tells how strong it is. And yesterday he cut his own wrist . . . just to help with a blood sample! It healed up in less than a minute. But it's not like I can really test his capabilities."

"The general wanted to know his limits."

Heather scoffed slightly. "Limits? To find limits you have to push them, and I am _not _going to hurt him on purpose just so I can get some medical results. I've written up what I know; it'll have to be good enough."

She stopped, looking up as Wolverine stepped off the treadmill, pulling the sensors from his chest as he looked towards them. Heather opened the door to her office, coming out towards him.

"What happened? Did you get tired? Do you need some water?"

Wolverine wiped a line of sweat from his brow absently. "Got bored," he said, his breathing already slowing to a normal rate. He frowned, looking around the room.

"About time," Mac chuckled, then turned to Heather. "You done here?"

"I have enough to keep me busy for a while, if that's what you mean."

Mac caught her hand. "We'll let you get back to work, hon. I'm stealing the Wolvster." He looked at Wolverine. "You wanna head out for a bit?"

He looked at him—that measuring, cautious gaze. "Why?" Wolverine asked, pulling his white tank top back on.

"Something fun. You've been cooped up, and haven't even had a chance to see my toys. Coming?"

Wolverine glanced over at Heather, who gave him an encouraging nod. "Go on. I'll be fine here on my own."

He nodded back, grabbing his shoes and pulling on his socks and boots. He fumbled slightly with the laces—his brow furrowing when he had to try twice on his right foot—but he managed on his own.

"See you for dinner?" Mac asked, as Wolverine stood.

"Mmm-hmm," Heather said, leaning over a microscope to eye a drop of blood.

Mac looked at Wolverine, who had turned slightly and was frowning across the lab—though at what he couldn't tell. "She gets like this. Gets involved in a project and you've got to drag her up for air."

"I heard that," Heather said, not looking up. "And look who's talking."

"Oops," Mac said, grinning. Wolverine blinked, and the corner of his lip curled the slightest bit upwards as he looked from him to Heather in a hint of uncertain humor. "Well, let's go before she kicks us out of here on our asses."

"James—language!" Heather chided, looking at Wolverine. "Don't listen to anything he says, Wolvie."

Wolverine frowned at that, suddenly serious, and Heather smiled. "A joke, Wolvie. Just a joke. Have fun, okay?"

"Will do," Mac said.

Mac led the way out, and Wolverine followed. He paused at the door, looking back. He glanced at the framed newsclipping of the Fantastic Four. His eye lingered briefly on the picture of Captain America before his gaze rested on Heather. "Bye, Heather," he said in his soft voice.

"See you later, Wolvie. Hey—" Heather looked up, pulling her glasses back from where she'd pushed them on her head. "You need anything, you just have James give me a call, all right? You can come here whenever you feel like it—even just for a breather."

Wolverine nodded, and turned to go.

Mac walked down the hall with him, filling Wolverine's silence with a running commentary on last night's hockey game, and how the Flames were just finishing off their season in the Stanley Cup Playoffs against the Winnipeg Jets: they'd made it to the semi-finals, had lost the first two games, but with the previous night's win of 4-0, if they won their game that night they'd be moving on. Wolverine listened, trying to keep track of the conversation, but kept on getting distracted every time a pair of uniformed soldiers passed them in the hall; only Mac's unchanging, enthusiastic tone drew him back each time.

He stopped dead-still, though, interrupting the man in the middle of a review of what had happened in the regular season, when he heard the first sound of a gunshot.

"What is it?" Mac asked, looking over at him.

Wolverine tilted his head; the sound was distant—no, muffled—but repetitive. Not rapid-fire: not a machine gun. Semi-automatic, by the sound of it.

He stiffened, drawing back slightly, and Mac raised his hands. "Hey, it's okay. What's wrong?"

"Guns," Wolverine said, flaring his nostrils as he searched for enemy scent. But it was useless: most of the people they'd passed had been packing, even if the man James wasn't.

Mac's eyes widened. "You can hear that?" he asked, clearly impressed.

Wolverine stopped staring down the hallway and looked at him at his tone. "Yeah." But Mac still didn't look alarmed, so Wolverine stood down a hair, though his claws itched in his forearms.

"That's where we're heading, actually. General Clarke—that's Heather and my overseer: I guess you could call him the boss—he thought you'd be too gun-shy to make it around here. I thought we'd take you to the range and see how you did."

Wolverine looked at him, processing the new words as they came. It was getting easier, which was good—there were so many new things to see and hear about. So many strange things.

A range? It certainly brought to mind guns. A place to shoot them, but not at people. Not shooting helicopter panels and jumping out the 'copter doors as the bird tumbled and smoked and crashed—smoke, burning his eyes as he rose out of the ground where he'd fallen. Blood in his eyes made it hard to see.

No—a place to shoot guns. For practice.

"Gun shy?" Wolverine repeated, focusing on another unfamiliar phrase. But it didn't take much musing to get to the bottom of that. He snorted.

"Yeah, that's what I told Clarke. But Heather wondered the same thing—she'd probably kill me if she knew I was taking you here already."

Wolverine looked at him at Heather's name. He frowned. "Huh," he said. "Let's go." Mac smiled, heading forward again.

The gunshots did grow closer—still muffled, but he could hear them through the door they approached, and he could feel Mac's eyes on him. He stood loosely—ready to move, but relaxed. Wolverine reached out, pushing the door open himself and looking around.

There was a line of booths—separated by narrow columns, and two gunmen were lined up, letting loose a clip from their pistols. Wolverine couldn't help but tense as gunfire echoed loud as cracking rocks on a cliff. Mac reached over to a drawer, pulling two sets of headphones and handing them to Wolverine, sliding them over his own ears. "Might not be perfect, but they help," he said—speaking loudly. Wolverine frowned at the headphones, then cautiously put them on.

Five more gunshots—but again, distanced. He blinked as the sounds faded back suddenly, and his breath caught in his chest briefly, and he heard it. Could hear his heartbeat, but little more.

It helped with the gunshots, but it blocked out everything else as well. Couldn't hear words, couldn't hear wind or people coming up behind him or a shift in the grass . . .

Like listening from under water.

He pulled them off, shaking his head as he passed them back to Mac.

"Are you sure?"

Wolverine nodded; he doubted the man could hear him even if he did talk, as another bullet thundered against his eardrums.

Painful. But it was better than the silence.

"Okay, then." Mac stepped over, typing a code in a panel before a locker slid open, and he drew out a pistol. Wolverine didn't move, but he didn't blink either—watching the gun with wariness, but also a clear curiosity.

It was small. Small, dark. No sharp edges, no warning for the pain it could cause. But dangerous nonetheless.

Mac moved slowly, pulling out a loaded clip. "All right. See? I just slide the magazine in—just like that. Kind of hit the end to make sure it clicks all the way in, and turn off the safety by pushing this button on the side—right there. You pull back this right here and it slides a bullet into the chamber. This is a semi-automatic, so that means that after you ready the gun, you can keep pushing the trigger and it'll keep firing until the clip runs out. Careful—it's got a bit of a kick. Now basic gun rules say you never—_never_—point a gun at somebody else, even if you think it's not loaded."

Wolverine grunted at that last part, his expression unreadable. Mac noticed and trailed off . . . and then cleared his throat, moving on.

"All right, then. I'll go first. I just step into this booth—see the target? I'm going to move it back—" Mac reached over, pressing a button to distance the target with the silhouette of a man back about half the distance. "You don't have to start as far away. Now pistols are harder to aim with than rifles. The shorter barrel gives less of a range for mistakes. You just line up the sight, and—"

_BAM!_

Wolverine jumped despite himself, his adrenaline spiking even as he clamped down on the reaction to pop his claws. One of his hands had flown to his ear closest to the sound: if the gunshots echoing from across the spacious room was bad, having the sound just a few feet away was near-deafening; it left his ears ringing.

Mac looked at him, grinning. "Sure you don't want any hearing protection?" Wolverine nodded wordlessly. "Okay, then. I'll put out a few and then let you try."

_BAM! BAMBAMBAM! BAM!_

Mac lowered the gun, turning on the safety and pressing the button on the booth to bring the target forward. He smiled as he saw the bullet marks around the center of the silhouette's chest, and gestured Wolverine forward. "Your turn."

Wolverine didn't hesitate, but reached forward, taking the gun by the butt as he stepped forward. He pressed the button, sliding the target back—all the way to the back wall. His finger found the safety before he'd thought about it—his stance lining up with the target automatically as he raised the gun.

He'd done it all without a thought.

_BAM!_ The first shot surprised him by the power of the kick, but his stance absorbed it, and he frowned, readying for the next one.

_BAM! BAM! BAM BAM BAM!_

The smell of gunpowder filled his nose. He knew it—knew it as well as anything. Knew the feel of this gun. Knew he could take it apart and put it back together easier than he could tie his boots.

He lowered the gun, holding the last bullet as he frowned at the target in the distance.

"Holy hell," Mac said, eyeing a screen on the ceiling that was zoomed up to the target. Wolverine glanced back, looking for his mark.

Six bullet holes, so close they were nearly on top of each other—clustered right in the middle of the human-shaped head.

The realization made him pause, and chill. Why did they make the target look like that? A shot like that would've blown a man's brains out. Even one of Mac's shots—one just under the collarbone, and other, which would have skipped off the sternum, but was too much to the left to be an immediate kill. Would've deflected off bone and skimmed the lungs. Would've killed the guy, but slowly. Like drowning from the inside out. He could almost hear the screams. Almost see the scarlet blood splurting out to melt the steaming snow.

But it was paper. Just a silhouette in a shooting range: meant for practice.

Practice killing. It was a strange thought. Wolverine had killed plenty, but he never would have thought to practice at it. To try and become _better_.

"You okay?" Mac asked, watching his face. Wolverine wondered suddenly how many men _he_ had killed, even if Heather had said he wasn't a fighter.

Wolverine frowned, turning and hardly taking aim before letting the last bullet fly.

_BAM! ZING!_

There was a spark, and an odd sound of metal-on-metal, and something bit into his chest like fire.

He gasped—the pain was so unexpected that it took him a second to feel it. He dropped the gun—it clattered to the floor, magazine empty—and grabbed his chest, feeling the hot blood running between his fingers as he dropped roughly to his knees.

"Oh my God," Mac swore, jumping forward. He fumbled for his radio, holding it to his ear with his shoulder as he reached forward, putting his hand over Wolverine's to try and stem the blood. "Hold on, Wolverine. I'm going to get Heather down here—is the bullet in there?"

Wolverine turned away, breath bubbling in his chest. He pulled away from Mac's hands as he growled softly. "D . . . dammit."

Mac pressed his radio. "This is Alpha Leader. I need Heather Hudson in shooting range 5, code red—gun shot to the chest."

"Hold on," Wolverine growled. He pulled his hand away from his chest, and something small and hard fell to the floor. James felt his mouth go dry as he saw the twisted, bloodied bullet slide across the floor, leaving a small red trail until it went still.

Wolverine growled again, putting his hand back over his chest and looking up at him through his hair. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, but he looked more angry than in pain. "It's fine," he said.

"Wolverine—"

"Look." Mac would have continued to protest protested, but Wolverine pulled back his hand. Mac could see the hole in his t-shirt, and even as he watched the blood stopped flowing, the skin began sealing together like somebody had played the whole scene backwards.

"How in the—?" Mac said, reaching out for him. But Wolverine pulled back, baring his teeth briefly. Mac stared at the blood—some of it had splattered on the floor—a thin, spraying mist of scarlet.

"I heal. Fast," Wolverine said, almost defensively.

"So Heather said. She didn't say you were damned immortal!"

Wolverine looked at him sharply at that, but didn't speak. He frowned, looking down at his bloodied hand.

"Are you okay? Does it hurt?"

"It's fine," he said, looking back over the range. "Tell Heather . . . Tell her not to worry."

"Must have been a ricochet," Mac said. "I'll have them pull this place apart. If anyone else had gotten hit . . . Well, they wouldn't be back in commission that fast."

Wolverine shrugged again, still not looking at him. "Washroom?" he asked, his voice a soft rumble as he spread his bloodied fingers, not knowing where to wipe them off.

"Through that door—second door on the right. I'll just . . . radio in and tell Heather we're okay," Mac said.

Wolverine nodded, still not looking at him as he slipped out the door. Mac radioed in to cancel the call, and looked back up at the television screen.

Seven bullets, neatly clustered in the center of the target's head.

That hadn't been a ricochet. Not from Wolverine's gun, at least.

Mac swore softly, looking around the range. Both sets of soldiers had left—he hadn't even bothered checking to see who they were, or from what unit.

He picked up his gun, walking back to the gun locker to pull out another magazine. He loaded the gun, settling it into the holster at his belt, and went looking for Wolverine.

Paranoid or not, he didn't think that he should be left alone. Even here.

Wolverine was outwardly unshaken by the incident—so much so that it seemed all the more wrong for Mac. The feral man took a spare shirt Mac managed to track down, chucking the bloodied one in the garbage can in his office.

Mac had gotten a brief look at his chest—not even a mark left from the injury. Wolverine didn't bring it up again, and so Mac let it slide and let the conversation shift as they got to his lab.

Wolverine sniffed around the perimeter, his sharp eyes picking apart the wires, the tech, the machinery—like a wary dog picking apart a new place before allowing himself to ease up. Mac let him take his time, providing a commentary that the feral man hardly seemed to listen to.

Once he'd stopped his inspection, Mac showed him his suit—even tried it on, and hovered a few inches above the floor when Wolverine's expression showed his dubiousness about its flight.

Wolverine actually looked vaguely interested and impressed, once he got past the bright colors: something that had clearly been lacking in his expression as Mac had showed him their airplane hangar, their Apaches, and their row of tanks. He even flew around the room a couple times, and Wolverine even had a couple questions as he watched his progress bemusedly.

Like how could he fly, and—was he a freak too?

Mac had laughed at that. "I'm not a mutant, if that's what you mean. It's just technology."

Wolverine hadn't looked completely satisfied, but he'd let it slide.

Mac had coaxed Wolverine to pop his claws and was acting out exactly how he wanted Wolverine to test to see if the metal could get through his force field when Heather walked in through the door, and stopped dead.

"Just—lightly. If it does go through I don't want to have a scar, and preferably not much damage to the suit. So just—right here, on the arm. Probably has the least complicated wiring in the system," Mac was saying.

"Got it," Wolverine said, eying Mac's outstretched arm across the worktable as he carefully brought his claws down.

"Easy," Mac said, leaning forward to get a better look himself. "I just want to see—"

"What in the world are you doing?" Heather said loudly.

Wolverine jumped, and Mac pulled back his arm as the feral man retracted his claws and turned to face her. They both looked guilty as hell.

"Nothing," Wolverine said.

Mac and Heather both looked at him, surprised that he'd been the one to speak up—and the one to lie. Mac grinned. "That's right. Absolutely nothing."

"You were testing his claws on your suit!" Heather said, ignoring both their claims.

"Just to see if they could go through the force field. Not likely, but like you said—this is unmapped territory. I was curious." Mac gestured for Wolverine to step forward again. "Come on, Wolv. Let's do this."

"James!"

"You know you're just as curious as I am. Wolverine will be careful; nothing's going to happen."

They both looked at her, waiting. Heather sighed, but he was right. The scientist in her was just as curious. She stepped forward. "Okay. Just . . . be careful."

Wolverine nodded, but he seemed to sense her nervousness. A single claw slid out of his hands slowly, lowering down to the red-and-white suit carefully—

_ZZZZT!_

There was a loud zap, and Wolverine jerked his arm back reflexively as Mac grinned. "It works," he said. "You see that, hon? I told you; I'm safe as anything in this thing."

"Just be careful," Heather repeated, clearly not convinced.

A beep at the door brought Wolverine's head up and he turned, his claws still extended on one hand as a uniformed man stepped into the room.

He had a hard look about him—stern grey eyes and a broad stance that filled the doorframe with 200 pounds of military muscle. His baldness added a shrewdness to him, and Wolverine stiffened, eyes narrowing at the sight of the uniformed stranger.

"I heard about the accident in the firing range," the man said. His eyes had landed on Wolverine immediately, but somehow he managed to avoid addressing him despite his gaze. His gaze lowered to his claws and stayed there.

_SNAKT._

"_What_?" Heather snapped, turning to Mac sharply. "The firing range? Accident? What _accident_?"

"It's okay," Mac said, but Heather went to Wolverine's side, who was staring guardedly at the newcomer. Wolverine caught her wrists as she reached for him—his grip was surprisingly gentle, though unyielding.

"'m fine," he said firmly, if softly, as if trying to keep uniformed man from hearing. He threw a glaring glance at the soldier. He let her hands go.

"Everything is fine, general. This is Wolverine—the mutant I told you about."

Wolverine's frown shot to Mac at the word—_mutant_—but only for a moment.

"Wolverine." The stranger said the word like he was testing its weight, and his eyes were doing the same to him. "Healing factor? An impressive one, if a gun shot to the chest is shrugged off so easily."

Heather choked slightly.

"I'll have a report on your desk by tomorrow, general," Mac said smoothly.

Wolverine stepped back, glancing at Heather with an uncertain frown. He didn't know who this man was, or what he wanted, but he didn't like how he was looking at him.

Heather glared at Mac one last time, but then gave him an encouraging smile. "Wolverine, this is General Clarke, the Head of Development and Deployment for Department H. He's in charge of what goes on at this base."

"Beneath the Director, of course," General Clarke said, giving him a thin-lipped smile of his own that didn't reach his eyes. He smelled like soldier's soap and an odd-smelling smoke. "The Hudsons manage to get you on board yet?"

Wolverine's eyes narrowed. He didn't speak.

"We're not pressuring him," Heather said, managing to breathe despite her worried glances at Wolverine and his chest as if expecting him to fall down bleeding without warning. "Considering his condition when we found him—"

"We're giving him some time to settle," Mac finished.

"With a mutant power like that, it's not like he has anything to lose," the general said, watching him again. He smiled as if he were making a joke, but Wolverine just looked back flatly. He turned away. "Well, if everything is in hand I'll let you get back to work. Keep me posted on your progress, Dr. Hudson."

"Yes, sir."

"Of course, general."

Wolverine frowned after him.

The door closed behind him, and Mac turned to Wolverine with a grin. "Geez, Wolvie. Trying to glare a hole through the general's head? I didn't know your mutant powers included laser vision."

"That's enough, James," Heather said. "What were you _thinking_, taking him to a firing range? What _happened?"_

"Just an accident—a . . . a bullet must've hit something—it deflected right into him. I've reported the incident—the range is shut down and is going to be pulled apart tomorrow. Really, Heather, he's fine. The injury healed in minutes—just _look_ at him."

Heather did—she really did, and Wolverine was surprised to see fear, worry, but something deeper than that in her eyes. _Guilt._ He didn't like to see it there.

"I'm _sorry_, Wolverine," Heather said, stepping close to him. "I shouldn't have . . . "

"Hey, it's okay," he said, reaching out to brush a strand of curled hair from her cheek. She seemed surprised at the action, and he pulled back, clearing his throat. "'s nothing."

"He's done fine today, Heather. But _you, _Wolvie—General Clarke's just another man. You just have to realize that people aren't going to hurt you. There's no need to stare down every person you meet. And you want to get on the general's _good_ side. It was nice of him to drop by." Wolverine looked at him, and he stepped a little closer. "Hey, _relax_. You look like you're tense enough to eat a bowl of rocks."

A beat. The tension seemed to leave him as he took a careful breath. He glanced at Heather. "Ain't that hungry yet," he said, rolling his shoulders.

Mac blinked at him. "Did you just make a joke?"

Wolverine shrugged, and Heather couldn't help but smile. And that was good enough for him.

TBC . . . .


	51. Broken Mirrors

Hey, all! I told you the next chapter would come out soon-so here it is! I hope you appreciate that last chapter and this one are 2-3 times longer than many of my chaps, so yeah . . . I'm trying to make the long hiatus up to you lot.

In that vein, thanks for all the reviews! I'm still making it a goal to break 500 reviews, so take the time to drop a quick review-even if it's anonymous and short (though the long ones make me happy). I try to respond to signed reviews as long as you have pm enabled, so check your inbox if you did this last time around. :) And yeah. . . if you find typos and mistakes, feel free to point them out to me. I try to go back and fix things that are pointed out to me. I don't have a beta and am kinda a grammar freak, so I do appreciate it. :)

To that point, I dedicate this chapter to PDA/Silverthorne, who as a consistent reviewer and supporter helped catch somewhere around 5-6 mistakes last chapter, and pmed me enough times during my long break to get me off my lazy behind and back to work. Thanks, Silverthorne! :)

This chapter was much easier to write than the last chap. I hope you enjoy it. :)

And a final plea: please, please, please review! This story has a whole lot more coming, and reviews help to keep me encouraged!

* * *

Chapter 51: Broken Mirrors

* * *

_Now:_

Logan showered and pulled on clean clothes before heading down to the kitchen for a beer and a late lunch. He pulled a container from the fridge, digging in without a care for what it was. He made a few phone calls to his contacts, but only half-rang through to SHIELD before hanging up. He glowered and stood, grimacing as his chest wound split enough to bleed again. Swearing, he headed down to the med center.

The med room was dark and still: the lights off, the beds empty. Someone had cleaned up—Beast, he'd say—but he could still smell blood. It was funny: he'd seen plenty of accidents and injuries during his time at the school, but it was his blood he smelled here. The blood he'd left behind while sitting at Rogue's side.

He pushed in, throwing open a cupboard and grabbing enough gauze and tape to do up his chest and a long cut down his thigh that was healing too slowly for his liking. He swore as he wrapped the wounds tight to keep the blood from leaking too much—not bothering with disinfectant or painkillers. Not like they would do any good.

He tossed the tape back in the shelf and was about to slam it shut, but paused as he caught a scent. He frowned, pushing aside the stacks of medical supplies to the back, where a small metal box lay hidden.

It smelled of Jean.

He hesitated, holding it in his hand before prying it open and turning to see the contents in the dim light filtering in through the door from the hallway.

Odds and ends. Not a memory box at all—more of a practical one. Stretchy ties for her hair. A spare set of glasses. A small pile of notes and cards. A small mirror and a picture of Summers and her in front of the school—smiling.

Wolverine grunted and snapped it shut before shoving it back in its place and replacing the medical supplies in front of it. He was already out of the room when it occurred to him that it would have been just as useful just to throw it away. Jean wasn't coming back—why keep it?

He shook his head, heading to check in with 'Crawler and Beast about whatever Frost had been up to before taking his afternoon session in the Danger Room.

* * *

He met Rogue on his way out of getting changed—this time actually willingly pulling on the black leather suit. Would do good to hide the blood, if anything split open too badly.

He tipped back the beer he had grabbed from the kitchen, swigging deep, but then threw out an arm to catch himself on the wall. He blinked, feeling a strange buzz that wasn't going away.

Heh. Guess his healing factor wasn't up for the count in a few different ways.

He tipped it back again, then smashed the empty can between his hands.

Screw the Danger Room. He was heading out to get thoroughly and completely drunk.

He turned and almost ran headfirst into Rogue.

"Hold it, sugah," she said, catching his shoulders as he wavered on his feet. "What're you doin' up and out of bed? You look like hell, ya hairy idiot." She ducked her head to look at him closely. "And are you . . . drunk?"

Logan blinked at her. He scrubbed his eyes. "'m fine."

"Uh huh."

He looked back at her, focusing on her face. The buzz was already receding—his healing factor was still working, if a bit more slowly than usual.

No grayness in her skin, no stranger looking out of her eyes—no ghostly scent that didn't belong to her. Still wearing those damned heels, though—even for a Danger Room session.

It was his Rogue, though.

"You okay, kid?"

Rogue punched his shoulder. Hard.

"Ow!" The girl still had a punch for someone twice her size. He caught his balance on the wall, bringing a hand to his arm when the pain didn't immediately fade. "What the hell was that?"

"You try pulling a stupid stunt like that again, and ah'll pull your sideburns off," Rogue snapped. "That's twice. Twice you've thrown your life in the air—and that's just for me. It's hazy, but I got some from Carol. You've done the same kinda fool thing before."

He looked at her sideways. "Danvers's still there?"

Rogue shrugged—clearly uncomfortable. "She's here," she said. "But behind a wall. Not takin' over so much, but I can . . . I don't think she's goin' anywhere, sugah, but whatever Emma Frost did . . . it's workin'. Not even hearin' much from _you_ in here, and after last night . . ."

Logan let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

He nodded gruffly, pulling his hand away from rubbing his sore shoulder. He could feel the bruise forming. Was this how most people felt like—so fragile?

"Logan—"

"Leave it. I'm fine," he said.

* * *

She didn't leave it.

Rogue made no effort to be discrete as she hovered over him—sometimes literally—during the session. The kid had never been intimidated by him like the others, but now even her hero-worship was gone, replaced by stone-hard stubbornness.

Logan ducked a blast of an energy beam, finally catching an opportunity to use her over-protectiveness to get rid of her.

"Rogue!" he shouted, pointing to the 'bot that was targeting him.

"Got it covered, sugah," Rogue said, bolting off the ground. She dodged a blast, spinning in the air, and drew back her fist—slamming a punch into the robot's center. It shot back as if hit with a cannon—slamming into the wall and falling in a smashed, sparking heap.

"Logan, down!"

Logan dropped as fireworks blasted over his head, sending a robot staggering, Logan whipped upwards, finishing it off with a slash that cleaved it from shoulder to side. He ducked as another blasted over him, but he caught its foot, sending it spinning off balance before he sling-shot it into the wall.

He straightened slowly, casting a quick look around the room. Rogue was hovering above him again, and Peter was busy beating a metal twin of himself to a heap of rubble.

"You doin' okay, Wolvie?" Rogue called. "You seemed a little slow on that last pass."

"Fast enough," Logan replied, ignoring the twinges as he straightened. It was easier to ignore the pain as he fought—it was part of the battle. He could take it. He wiped his arm across his face, already moving on. "Good shot, Sparks," he said. She was getting better—better reflexes, more aware of her surroundings without getting distracted by the less immediate dangers. "And . . . Sparks—keep your elbow down on the left block. You ain't bad on the speed, but a guy changes his hit at the last second, and you're leavin' yourself wide open."

The kid flipped her black hair from her eyes. "Jubilee."

"What's that?"

"My name is Jubilee."

"It's called a codename, kid."

"Jubilee is totally cool enough to be a codename. Anyway, my name is Jubilation. I mean, seriously? 'Sparks'?"

"Live with it."

"Okay, Claws."

Logan glared at her, but the girl didn't stand down. So there was a disadvantage of getting their problems out in the open.

They headed for the exit, and Rogue landed next to Jubilee, brushing some dust from her shoulder.

"So you make Frost's club, Jubes?"

"Yeah. Bunch of stuck-up kids."

Logan snorted. Both girls turned back to glare at him. "Dust," he explained, gesturing to the sparking ruin on the floor.

"I mean, Hellion is soooo full of himself. And don't even get me started on M. It's like she's trying to put a team together with the biggest assholes out of the school, and somehow I get thrown in with them."

It _was_ a bit of a discontinuity, Logan had noticed. Most of Frost's new team (She was calling them the Generation Xers, or something like ridiculous like that, but what would he care?) were high-end (not to mention high-maintenance) mutants. TKs, shifters, and whatever-the-hell Monet St. Croix was being categorized with on a given day (Logan had simply lumped her power as "arrogance" besides having to listen to her protest with being categorized as "just" super-strong, "just" super-smart, "just" a flier, or "just" a telepath). Jubilee was probably the least-high-strung out of the bunch . . . and that was saying something.

Maybe that's just how Frost liked them. He wished her luck getting the team to keep from killing each other.

The call for mail delivery echoed down the hall as the lift to the main floor _dinged_ open.

Piotr and Kitty bolted from the lift, but Jubilee hung back. Logan headed for the kitchen to grab another beer from the fridge: from the aches in his side and leg, he was hoping that he hadn't missed the window for him to get drunk. Jubilee took her time, walking into the game room for a creased magazine from the table. She opened it up, popping a huge piece of gum in her mouth as she strolled towards the stairs—practically reeking of projected disinterest as the other kids sorted through the mail.

"I got a letter from my dad," Kitty said, pulling it out and continuing to flip through the pile. "Peter, there's one from your family here, too. Sam, here's your mom's letter, and—oh my gosh." She pulled out a letter, staring at it. "There's one for Logan."

"What?" Jubilee said sharply. Kitty looked at her, but she looked back to her magazine, pretending like she didn't care.

"I didn't know Logan had anyone to, you know—write him," Pixie, a younger student with diaphanous, lacey wings sprouting between her shoulders, said softly. Logan cleared his throat, stepping louder as he approached the hallway.

Kitty looked up at him from the pile of letters. "Logan, there's a letter for you."

Logan stared at her. "What?"

"A letter. See here? 'P. Logan.'"

"P. Logan?" Logan repeated. He set his beer on the decorative desk next to him and grabbed the letter from her and sniffed it. A number of people had touched it—most recently the postman—but he didn't recognize any of the scents, besides the kids'.

Was this some kind of joke?

Jubilee made a face, looking up from her magazine again. "Peter Logan? Or Paul? Or P—uh, Puh . . . Pablo?" she guessed.

Logan stared at it. It was postmarked from St. Martin's Church, Madripoor—first class. The letter wasn't thick—it felt like it only had a single piece of paper in it. He held it carefully as he read the sender's name.

_Ishikawa Yukio._

Yukio?

"Ish-i-kawa?" Kitty read, face twisting as she struggled with the pronunciation. "Who's he?"

"The name's Yukio, kid—and she ain't a he." He popped a claw and slid it along the top, cutting it open cleanly as he headed up the stairs, leaving the kids behind. Their curious gazes followed him all the way up, and they broke into whispers as soon as he disappeared around the corner.

P. Logan?

Private Logan?

Or did the P. actually stand for his name?

Madripoor. Not the first time he'd heard the name in recent months.

P. Logan.

_Patch?_

He shook his head.

And who the hell was this Yukio?

He closed the door to his room and locked it before opening the letter, sniffing again for the scent.

A lady, that was for sure. And the name wasn't right for Madripoor, unless she didn't belong there in the first place. The name was Japanese—hell, even the lingering scents on the paper smelled Japanese. He could almost taste the sake.

He turned to the words, written in a fine hand, though unelaborated. Whoever had written this didn't care about assembly.

_Logan—_

_Good to see you back on the map. The hand of your enemies is moving._

_Be wary._

_Yukio_

There wasn't enough there to pour over, but Logan read it again anyway.

Short, to the point. No instructions of what to do, or who it was—the lady was cautious, careful.

Back on the map? He'd been back on the map for years.

Freakin' useless, that's what this was. As if he weren't paranoid enough already.

But Logan paused, taking one more breath of the scent before carefully closing the letter back up.

He tucked it in his pocket, unlocking his door and striding back down the stairs. The kids looked up at him, half-wary, half-curious.

"Everything okay?" Kitty asked.

"Fine," Logan said, turning down the hall. He strode forward, throwing open the coat closet, but then stopped as he stared down at Bobby and the violently-blond Boom Boom, lip-locked and intertwined, their hair askew.

They stared up at him, somehow both pale and flushed at the same time.

Logan frowned back.

"I just wanna know one thing," Logan said, his low voice causing Bobby to pale another shade. "Did this start before or after Rogue broke up with ya?"

Bobby swallowed. "A-after," he near-gasped.

Logan grunted, and Bobby recoiled as his hand went towards his face, only to grab his coat from the hangar behind him. Without another word, he shut the closet door in their faces and headed towards the garage.

He had some people to track down, some hunting to do, and then some bars to drink dry.

* * *

Logan padded onto the back porch late that night (technically morning, but he shrugged at the difference), sitting down on the stairs leading to the large walkway and the frost-white grass beyond. Winter had brought a light dusting of snow—not enough to stay long, but enough to blanket the land with a chill of silence.

He hadn't slept. The mansion had been quiet when he'd returned, wiping a line of blood from his cheek from a bar fight that he hadn't bothered trying to avoid. The beer and his previous injuries had made it interesting, but the guy he'd gone to talk to hadn't minded the mess.

Still no sign of Storm. He had intended to track down of this Yukio, but when it came down to it, he'd kept the letter hidden and the name unspoken.

_The hand of your enemies is moving. Be wary._

The dusting of white coated his toes, sank cold through his sweats—chilling him. He ignored it, resting his chin on top of his arms as he stared into the icy darkness. A few stray flakes floated from the foamy sky, settling down in the black of his wild hair.

He rubbed his forehead against a steady headache. His healing factor was still getting back on board, and it wasn't happy at him for his drinking binge, or his lack of sleep.

Logan lifted his head as something caught his ear—a slight rustle, the slightest shifting of movement. His eyes twitched towards the sound, but he didn't move—his nose flaring for a scent.

Ah.

He lifted his head slowly. Emma Frost had stepped out of the shadows, and as he watched she moved forward and rested her forearms against the banister across the large banister. She hadn't seen him yet, but in the darkness, she looked even more pristine than usual—even in her bathrobe. She didn't seem affected by the cold, but leaned forward, bowing her head. Was it just him, or did the dim light from the clouds seem to catch in her hair in an odd way? It glimmered like light on a cut diamond.

He frowned, squinting slightly, but then Frost looked towards him—seeing him for the first time. She pulled back, drawing her bathrobe close, and the moment was gone.

"You," she said, taking a few steps closer before leaning back onto the railing next to the stairs where he sat.

"What're you doin' out here, Frost?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

Logan grunted, looking forward into the darkness, but not taking his attention from the woman. He could smell her better, now—beneath the scent of flowery soap from a shower only hours before, she stank of flop sweat and the fading stink of fear.

Looked like he wasn't the only one having trouble sleeping.

"Since we're both here, we might as well address the situation of Storm," Emma said. "I know she's missing; two minutes inside Cerebro and I could pinpoint her down to the inch."

Wolverine barely even glanced at her. "Heh." When hell froze over, maybe.

Frost moved forward, stepping down the steps so she was next to him. "What reasons do you have to mistrust me?"

"Where to start?" Logan drawled.

"Give me one. Be a pet."

"Kitty doesn't like you."

She snorted delicately (Logan hadn't known such a thing was possible)."You can't dwell on that. It's not like I blame her. We met on one of her first missions—and the X-Men's first defeat since the beginning of her membership, I believe. But she doesn't have to. None of them do."

"I ain't like the rest a' the X-Men."

"I know," Emma said, raising her eyebrow slightly. "In fact, I wonder if the dispute between the Hellfire Club and the X-Men might have had a very different outcome if you had been on the team at the time."

_Mighta saved Jeannie._

The thought slipped through before he could stop it, but he squashed it as fast as he could anyway as he turned away to reset his expression.

"Flattery'll get ya nowhere."

"What about honesty?"

Wolverine didn't answer.

Frost was shivering, but she pulled her plush robe closer; he could see her toes peeking out from beneath the pale white hem. What was she thinking, coming out here barefooted? He ignored the fact that his own bare feet sat on the step beneath him, burning with the cold. It was hardly the same thing.

"Then let me be blunt. I'm not here to be liked, Wolverine. I'm here to get results."

Logan turned his gaze to her for the first time. "All right, then. What exactly are ya aimin' for?"

A pause. "We may not have gone about it the same way, but Xavier and I had the same goals."

"That's exactly what Magneto said, darlin'—you ain't exactly gainin' ground with me here."

"Magneto is a crass tyrant seeking nothing but power and empty revenge," Emma waved away. "True power? That requires more finesse. If mutants are ever going to be able to thrive as they should, we need an image. A voice. A platform."

"You sound like a politician."

"And if I do?" she said coolly. "Look at the Avengers. Two of them mutants, just like us, but with public opinion for them—completely different. You may help people by skulking about in the dark like you're prone to, Wolverine, but it won't gain their trust."

Wolverine looked forward. She was right. This wasn't his kind of caper. Half the time he wasn't even sure why he was still here himself.

"So that's what you're putting your boy band team together for? Flashin' them around in public?"

"Once they're ready, yes."

Logan fell silent.

"Along that line, I'm also here to help _you_."

"Take your help and stick it, Frost."

"Whether you like it or not, Logan, you've become the leader of this school. It only damages the cause when you go about threatening the Scarlet Witch and SHIELD officers. You're used to being a loner, but you have to face the fact that what you do reflects on all of us—and that includes your recent decline. Your mind is fractured. It's a marvel that you can operate as it is. In all reason, you should be a drooling mess—nothing more than an animal at best."

Logan stood—so quickly and smoothly that Frost blinked, taking a step back. Wolverine looked up at her.

"Ya don't know me, Frost. I don't care what yer pickin' up from my head, but I can tell you—ya don't know me. This ain't a recent thing—this ain't new. I've been handling it for years, and I can handle it now. Even—" He stopped. He turned away. "Even Jean couldn't handle it."

"But—"

"Leave it, Frost."

Wolverine stalked into the house, leaving Emma Frost on the stairs alone. She unfolded her arms, but then looked back out over the dark, frosted grass—her face as unreadable as diamond.

* * *

_Then:_

_The woods were wild, cold—wet. The branches whipped at his bare arms as he fled, his breath tearing at his lungs, blood raining down his skin like rain—but he knew it wasn't his._

_It was hers._

_He leaped over a stone ridge, landing on his feet like a mountain cat, and still running, even as he tasted blood in his mouth, and felt dampness run down his cheeks as the cold wind tore at his eyes._

_Pain gripped at his lungs—his heart. Ripping out his heart . . ._

_Wolverine bore its teeth. He'd heal, he always did, and then—_

_No. It was too late. He couldn't heal from this, couldn't heal . . . ._

_He stopped, his feet sliding in sharp snow, and dropped to his knees. He turned his face upwards and roared._

"_!"_

_It was an unnatural sound—inhuman, but too pained and tortured for an animal. It tore from his throat like a thousand claws, ripped through his chest like bullets, jerking him, tearing his soul to shreds._

_He slumped forward to the earth, his fists clenched, his arms freezing to the icy ground._

_He didn't care anymore. He didn't care. He just wanted to—just wanted to—_

—_not care—_

_He felt eyes on him, and he lifted his head wearily, numb, and saw the building in front of him._

_A bar? Lights sparked from its weakly spattering neon sign, blazing its name like lightning through the ice and snow._

THE PROPHECY.

_No, not a bar . . . _

The apocalypse. When all secrets are exposed, an' all runnin' ends.

_Hell. Hell was coming._

_SKOFF! VRAUVRAAAVA!_

_What was that sound? What was that sound?_

_Hell, who cared?_

_It didn't matter. Nothing mattered any more. Just numbness._

_VRAAAAVAVRRRAAVA!_

"_Mr. Logan."_

_Someone was standing over him—he could smell him, smell the gun on him._

_Didn't matter._

_He lifted his eyes, his arms limp at his side—too heavy to bother to lift._

_PHUP!_

_A dart hit the side of his throat, flooding his blood with drugs, and he slumped over, not even trying to resist. Automatic rage fought to make him move. He hit something—someone groaned— but something struck his face, knocking him back. He felt his nose break, blood flood his throat. The drugs dragged him down._

_He couldn't care, even as hands started to lift him._

"_Uhf. Help me with him."_

"_Yuh. He's real heavy for just—a little guy."_

Heavy for a little guy . . . .

_Why should he care? There was no reason to care. Not now. Not ever._

_He was just a freak. An undying disease that killed and never stopped killing. An illness without a cure._

_And if they wanted to kill him . . . hell, wasn't that what he deserved?_

_Do it._

NO! _a voice screamed in his head—wanting to rage, to rip, to kill them all and run and run and run—that the man who was now being lifted by the three intruders had no idea what he was about to face._

_What was coming was not peace at all—but the apocalypse._

_He sank . . . sinking down into darkness, sinking into oblivion and nothingness._

* * *

Wolverine jerked upright in the guest bed, gasping. Heather opened the door, holding her hastily-donned robe closed as she flipped on the light. "Wolverine?"

Wolverine jerked to his feet, tearing out of the sheets and moving agitatedly towards the mirror on the wall.

"No!" he snarled. He drew back a fist, and the mirror shattered into a million pieces. "GRRAARGH!"

He slammed a fist back, smashing clean through the wall and sheetrock.

"Wolverine!" Heather said sharply, alarmed.

"NO!" he turned to her, his fists clenched, his teeth bared, breathing hard. Her eyes were wide and afraid, and as he slowly became more awake, he turned away, trying to stop himself from shaking from rage and the lingering pain of the dream.

The _pain_—like a knife, but deeper, deeper—far deeper . . .

_Heal, dammit. Heal!_

_GodohGodohGodohGod—_

Couldn't breathe. Couldn't _breathe_. It was choking him, ripping him apart.

He wasn't _healing!_

He bent, curling into himself and gripping his head against the phantom agony. But it was slipping away—slipping away into red, into madness.

A hand reached out, touching his shoulder, and he flinched, choking on a snarl.

_Heather!_

He'd let it happen before. Let himself let go—rip into the trees, the earth: whatever got in his way. Had even let it happen, once, around the kid.

But Heather was there. No defense, no place to hide or run. Smelling of worry. For _him_.

He couldn't let go.

Wolverine fell onto his knees, baring his teeth and shutting his eyes tight as he fought the rage inside of him.

_Breathe._

He breathed in a shuddering breath like a man starving for air. Had he been holding his breath the whole time?

Felt he was breathing through a tube. Water pressing down on him. Claustrophobia like the weight of a thousand mountains bearing him down.

_A dream. It was just another freakin' dream._

A dream.

His hands slid where they had tangled in his own hair and he opened his eyes, looking at his knuckles. They trembled as he resisted the wild urge to pop his claws and dig his way out.

That feeling—it was like fire. _Rage_, is what his mind came up with, but it felt larger than the small word. It felt like blood, like claws, like screams. Like starving wolves ripping into one of their own in the winter—driven mad by starvation. Wild. An animal. Something berserk trying to break free.

_Fight it. Breathe._

He slowly became aware that he was shaking—that Heather had an arm around him, one hand rubbing slow circles on his back. It made part of him sick, and he had to fight to keep from pulling away from her.

It felt good, this touch.

He lifted his head slowly, turning to look at her. Her hair was sleep-tousled, but her eyes were alert. Her expression was worried, but it began to change into something he didn't like. It took him a second to think of the word: pity.

He pulled away, climbing to his feet and turning away from her. He felt heavy: had he always been this heavy?

The animal still snarled inside him, and he clenched his fists, still fighting it. Always fighting it. He had never noticed it before—in the wild—but now he felt it clear as day.

"Wolverine, are you—"

"Logan."

Heather stopped. "What?"

"What they—called me," Wolverine said haltingly, shutting his eyes. He breathed in again—the air was close and dusty. It smelled like books and distanced frost from beyond the windowpane. "Logan."

They'd taken him. They'd—taken him. All alone, taken him, and he hadn't even fought.

He hadn't wanted to. Hadn't cared.

"Logan? You mean—that's your name?"

Wolverine felt a second wave of rage and popped his claws, slicing through the wall with a snarl.

He _hurt_. Wolverine was no stranger of pain—far from it—but even the shadows of the dream made him want to fall down and never get up—to curl up and howl and never stop—to _die_, just so it would end . . .

Wolverine fell, dropping to the floor and grabbing his head. Blood from his already-healed hands smeared his face.

"Wolverine!"

_Logan._

The feral man didn't seem to hear her, but knelt there, tears running down his face and his fingers gripping his head as if he were trying to rip it open. Something foreign was clawing its way out of him, but it was no longer feral. It was grief—raw and broken, opening its eyes to a gaping wound he hadn't even noticed. Some part of him awakening inside for the first time.

Something human.

"_Why_?" the word was wrenched out of his throat, torn and bloodied in the air. "W-w-hy did they do this to me?"

Gentle hands touched him, and he made to flinch away, but Heather bravely didn't let go of his bare shoulders. She pulled his head to her shoulder, not letting him pull away.

She was warm—the touch of mankind strange, but good. Very, very good—so good that it enveloped him, crashing over him like a tidal wave—overwhelming him.

And suddenly, it all came down.

He sank into her hold, gasping at the unknown, foreign pain in his chest that wouldn't go away. Tears falling from a man dead—for a man who he would probably never know.

Tears ran down Heather's cheeks and fell onto the top of his head.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I just don't know."

* * *

_Had a bit of a rough time for a while there. I think part of me came back, when I remembered my name. Part of the old Logan, maybe. Realized that there had been something else before—somethin' I'd probably never get back. But I got enough back to understand that I'd lost something—and that something wasn't going to heal._

_Never has. And by now, it's pretty clear it never will._

_Every day it seems I'm wakin' up a new me. I've died a thousand times—not just from my heart stoppin', but me. Changin'. See, some people get ta die, and once they're dead . . . well, that's when they finally get ta stop dyin'._

_Ya think about how temporary people are. Guess it comes with th' territory of bein' like me—you just wonder about how things can change soon's you can bat an eye. Blowin' out the candle, and your gone._

_But that's just it—bein' human. I ain't the only one ta die a thousand times. We all die. Every day you wake up someone new—maybe you don't even notice the difference. Or maybe ya wake up and you realize the person you buried the day before's a stranger—'cause time changes a person._

_I bury myself every day, but there ain't no funeral—no procession, no ceremony. Sometimes I wonder that in the future I'll just bury myself away for good, and forget who I am now—I'll be a stranger with my name._

_But ain't that it? Isn't that what already happened?_

_The man that I once was is more dead than death itself. He'll never come back. He'll never even be remembered right like he would've been if he'd actually died. I look back at myself, just when Heather found me. A stupid animal: ignorant, wild, so different—just the same. He's dead too. No one will ever look like him, think like him, act like him again._

_Mr. Logan, Logan—whoever the hell I was before—he's more dead than I'll ever be able to be._

* * *

He didn't sleep that night. Heather stayed with him until he cried himself dry, and he pulled away reluctantly, feeling strangely fragile—like something had broken inside him, and Heather's arms were the only thing holding him together.

She didn't talk—she seemed to realize that this was beyond words, until the minutes slid into hours and she murmured something he didn't hear and headed back to bed.

Wolverine—Logan—sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the darkness.

Logan. Logan. Logan. Logan.

He didn't stop repeating it. He repeated it in his head. Mouthed it silently, and whispered it in the darkness. Once he even said it out loud, but then immediately went still, the silence deader than before. It sounded strange in his voice. Strange in the darkness.

Familiar, yet unfamiliar. Substantial as a dream, but a part of him as the dog tags that once again hung over his chest. Somehow, he missed those more than ever. When had he lost them? Sometime before the cabin. Before Heather.

They had told him who he was. _Wolverine_.

_Logan._

_Logan, Logan, Logan_.

The name hurt—he hated it. Hated the sound of it, and wondered who else had said it to him. _Mr. Logan._ He shivered. How many times had it been said over him—a name, but not a name for a person? For a _thing._

But the name meant something more. It was _his_. They'd tried to take it away from him, but they couldn't. _His._ An unexplainable wave of fierce satisfaction washed over him at that, but he couldn't say why. Only that no matter how much it hurt, he was never going to let it go again.

Would it feel the same tomorrow? Would he wake up to found it lost once again? He was afraid that if he let it go for a second it would disappear forever.

_Logan._

But Heather knew. He'd told her. She would remember, even if he forgot.

It was that thought that allowed him to shut his eyes at last as he laid back down onto the spare bed, pulling the homemade quilt up around him. It smelled clean, but not sharply sanitized. It smelled safe.

_Logan. Logan. Logan._

_Logan._

TBC . . . .


	52. Ars Memoritiva

Geez. I'm getting pretty bad at this. The breaks between updating, that is.

I've actually had this chapter pretty much done since about a week since the last chapter, but due to distractions of teaching, NANAWRIMO and a fun original piece I've been working on, a sister who went through 2 surgeries the last couple months, and a boyfriend (Which takes up a surprising amount of time. Not that I'm complaining. ;) ) I just haven't had the focus on this to get it out until now.

As usual, though, here's my usual confirmation that there is still a *lot* coming. I love writing this story, if you can't tell, so it's not going to be given up any time soon. :)

I do know that this chap is a little slow and not too long, but the scene wouldn't leave my head, so here it is. A plus, though: I pretty much have the next chapter done as well, so if I put forth a little effort I should have the next chapter up in another week or so, and am about halfway through the next-maybe more. Drop reviews to help my motivation and maybe I'll actually be able to get back on a schedule for this thing so it can get done before the end of the world comes around. ;)

As usual, thank you my dear supporters. Thank you for not giving up on me and for putting up with my very slow updates. As a long-time fanfiction reader before I gave it up and put the time into writing, I know how frustrating it can be without consistent updates. Thanks for holding in there anyway. :)

Thanks especially to the two wonderful reviewers who emailed me over Christmas break, WolvieRules and Silverthorne, as well as my RL friend Carcajou; all three gave me some prodding to get me going again.

On that same vein, can I mention in passing how excited I am that this chapter will probably bring my 500th review? :D:D:D:D Yeah, I'm excited.

Love to hear from you all. I hope you enjoy the chapter. :)

* * *

Chapter 52: Ars Memorativa

* * *

_Now:_

_Been dreamin' every night, now._

_Sometimes they're just like they used to be—feelin's, flashes of pain and blood, nothin' with much sense to it. Wake me up screamin', and ready to kill. But there's more to it now. More . . . depth. Gotta crawl out each time. Feels like I'm diggin' out of a grave with my fingernails._

_Dreamin' more about Stryker, too. Rememberin' the before— the faceless men. The knives. The rage. The experiments, the degradation as they stripped the man and me down to nothin'—isolating this bad thing in me and bringin' it out to play. It's like dyin', every time. Wake up with a knife in my throat—always healing, but never stopping the hurting._

_And yeah, there's Jean. Jeannie's always there, dyin' with my claws through her heart._

_Then there're the others._

_Dunno where they're comin' from. Memories? I can't figure. Half of me wants them to be, the other half would rather have no memories than these ones. Wake me up, rememberin' faces, rememberin' death and war._

_Seems my whole life has just been one long war._

_Present mixin' with the past, with history. World War I guns spattering at sentinels, or findin' a kid Magneto huddled at the back of a cell in what looks and feels like a concentration camp. Seein' Stryker runnin' crazy in the jungles of 'Nam, seein' Ms. Marvel chained up for questionin' in some god-forsaken cell—only it's inside her. Inside Rogue, shoutin' ta get out—callin' my name._

_Beginning to wonder what's real—all of it? Any of it?_

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine heard soft murmurs from Heather and Mac's bedroom before the sun rose. He heard James rise, moving about until he left the house. He didn't move—pulled against the wall on the bed, his knees brought up beneath his chin.

He didn't move as the sun rose, casting dim, filtered light through the blinds that fell as bars over his face. He watched it crawl across the floor away from him, until the light only nipped his toes, and he pulled his knees closer to his chest.

He heard Heather moving around—smelled something cooking. His stomach growled a response and he lifted his head slowly, licking his lips despite the sick pit in his gut.

_Logan._

_Logan. Logan._

Minutes passed. He slowly unfolded himself from his position, carefully putting his bare feet on the carpeted floor. He stood, feeling unsteady on his feet as he looked at the door.

It was pale blue bordered in white—the paint faded slightly from time. It looked suddenly absurd to him. What was he doing here?

_Logan. Logan. Logan._

He clenched his right hand and reached for the doorknob with his left. The metal was cold against his palm, but he didn't turn it. He stood there, tracing the line of the wood beneath the fading paint with his eyes.

"Logan? Are you up?"

He started backwards as the doorknob twisted under his hand, and Heather peeked in. "Oh, sorry. I wasn't sure if you were awake." She looked at him closely. "You didn't sleep, did you?"

Was that a question? It didn't really sound like it.

"Slept 'nuff," he said, a bit gruffly, running a hand through his hair. He looked at her, readying his words. "Heather. I . . ." He swallowed. "I . . . last night—" He stumbled, catching on his words.

"It's okay. Go on."

Wolverine looked away, shaking his head. "Nothin'. Just—nothin'."

She waited a moment longer, but Wolverine just frowned, looking down at the carpet as if noticing the shattered mirror pieces under his bare feet for the first time. One piece had dug into his sole, but he could feel his skin moving around it—already pushing it out. He hardly noticed the stinging

"I made breakfast," Heather said, pushing her loose hair behind one ear. "And took the day off. Technically we weren't supposed to be back for a few more days anyway, so the director's okay with it. Mac and I thought you could do with a break."

Wolverine nodded distractedly, now frowning at the claw marks in the wall and the shattered plaster where he'd put his fist through the sheet rock.

"We'll just move the bookshelves until we get the money to fix it up. Don't worry about it." He looked at her, and she held out a hand. "Come on. We're going to take it easy today."

He took it—her hand was small in his, and soft. Something so fragile, so breakable. He could cut her in half before she could blink, but her scent was steady, fearless. Immovable as a mountain.

Heather had fixed scrambled eggs and hotcakes. She sat him down and stuck a plate in front of him heaping with the stuff. Wolverine took one bite and dug in like a man with a mission. Heather ate more slowly next to him.

"Logan?"

He looked up at her.

"What do you remember?"

He looked down at his plate, frowning. The dream had long since faded into vague impressions and feelings, but he'd dug his fingers into a death grip of all of it that he could.

"Took me in," he said at last, his voice a low rumble. "Didn't fight it. Didn't . . . didn't even try runnin'."

"They? Who are they?"

He shook his head. "Dunno. Didn't know. Didn't care. Just—ah . . . "

He cut off, opening his hand. His hand had tightened around the fork, bending it backwards. "Sorry."

"Wolverine. _Logan_. We can figure this out. Do you remember anything? Where you were? Any names or faces? Who you might have been?"

A _zing _of pain and comfort at the name—_his _name: scalding heat and shattering cold. He managed not to flinch, but his head buzzed.

_Hell coming._ Lights. Pain. Darkness. Bitter fluid flooding his nose, his mouth. _Remember?_ Hot fire in his head, in his bones. Burning him up from the inside out, burning him away. Panic, terror. Biting metal and chains and hate and rage. Blood spilling as he ran through darkness, then over blinding snow. Blood behind him, blood ahead. _Wolverine_. Black-frozen toes and cold that burned. Hunger like a bullet ripping through his gut. Rage as gunfire rained down around him, blinding out the pain.

A man, but not a man. A freak like the kid, but different.

Worse.

He set the bent fork carefully on the tablecloth, shaking his head.

"It'll come," Heather said firmly. "We'll see if General Clarke knows any professionals we can go to—"

"No." She stopped, looking at him. Wolverine blinked; he hadn't even meant to speak the word, but he was sure of it. He looked straight back at her, unwavering.

"Okay. You don't have to do anything you don't have to, Wolvie. Logan," she corrected herself.

"It's fine," he said. Wolverine was as much his name, after all. And it hurt less, though that realization made his stomach turn.

Heather waited for him to get ready, then handed him a cooler to load into the car before they climbed in and headed down the road. Wolverine looked out the car window like before—his eyes narrowed. Watching.

People. So many people. Tall, thin. Fat. Short. He couldn't smell them, but sight was enough for now. Driving. Walking. All dressed with shoes, short hair. Only one man with a beard. He ran a hand over a sideburn, frowning. Did it mean something? He couldn't remember.

Houses passed by. Buildings. All straight lines and brick and paint. Paved streets and sidewalks. So set and cut and defined. Clean. Civilized. Even the trees looked mostly the same, all in a row along the road.

The feeling crawled up his back like a line of ants—that feeling he'd felt as he'd stared at the door that morning.

Displaced.

He didn't belong here.

The car slowed to a stop and Wolverine glanced at Heather, but she didn't make a move to get out of the car. He looked forward, wondering why she'd stopped.

Lines, painted on the street. Lights and strange ropes overhead . . . Lights. The red light meant stop, he remembered. And green . . .

He looked to the side, catching site of the green lights for the other direction. His eyes paused on a mother walking across the street in front of them, and the young boy whose hand she held.

Small. Smaller than the kid—Gambit—had been. Barely waist-high to him, with a mop of hair and giant eyes. The boy caught sight of him and pointed, looking up to his mom.

Wolverine hunched down in his seat.

The light flicked green and Heather eased her foot onto the gas.

Wolverine let his head fall back against the seat rest as they drove on. He felt exhausted—his head hurt, and it wasn't stopping. Wasn't healing. And everywhere he looked jumbles of thoughts tumbled in.

Like how he could drive the car if he needed to. Could hotwire it too, or change a tire. A fleeting thought that he hadn't checked for a bomb hidden in the undercarriage . . .

Post office.

Sending things—packages.

A dog, sniffing next to a fire hydrant before stopping to mark its territory.

Like a wolf, but this was a small white thing, trotting beside a woman. Wondered what it would taste like.

Neon lights flashed as they passed a bar, and he blinked, suddenly wondering at it. Man-made light. He'd first seen it months ago, but he'd never let himself wonder.

It wasn't fire—there was no wood, no smoke, no flames. Was it like the sun? Or the stars? But the sun was a star—burning in the sky, in space. Too hot, too bright for a light like in Heather's room. In space . . . a sphere. Floating.

Had they caught the light—trapping a reflection, like he'd seen the stars in the river on a still, cold night in the woods?

Something overhead. Flying. Not a bird. Something metal. A plane. People inside. Flying. Roaring . . . falling . . .

He swallowed.

Not a danger. Not this one, at least. But they could be, just like the helicopter in the woods.

He rubbed his eyes with his palms, trying to stop, just for a second. Trying to stop the noise. The _thinking._

He needed some air. Or something, because the air in here filled his head even with his eyes closed. Smell of gas and carpet and dirt and oil—so telling. So many stories of comings and goings—so many scents he didn't understand. They pounded on his brain like a mob trying to break in, but then slipped away when he tried to catch them.

The buildings thinned out. More houses like Heather's, and then fields. And finally, trees.

Wolverine sat straighter as the forests rose up and surrounded them, unconsciously straining for the scent as he put a hand on the window—which suddenly moved.

He pulled his hand back sharply, but the window had just gone down a crack. Damp air whipped through his hair. "You can roll it down more—the button, right there. There you go."

Wolverine frowned, but then pushed the button cautiously. The window slid down, and the wind hit his face like a wave of fresh water. He breathed in deeply, the noise and smell of the car being swept away.

Dirt and rain and mud and trees and green and natural musk. So many scents—he could smell the dew evaporating, smell the ground warming. Smell the breathing of the trees and a whiff of a squirrel. There was a grey cover of exhaust from cars near the road, but he put it aside.

Where were they going? Heather had said picnic—food, that meant. But what then? Was she going to leave him there?

He didn't know how he felt about that thought. The idea of returning to the woods was relieving, yet somehow . . . terrifying.

Like going out there might mean he'd lose himself.

_Logan._

Should he take this chance to leave her—to run into the wild? It was so much simpler there. So much easier.

He kept his face in the wind for the rest of the trip.

The car ride lasted some time—Wolverine watched the digital numbers on the dashboard change and figured out what it meant. Clocks. Time. 32. 32 _minutes_. About a half an hour.

Heather pulled up into a side road, which turned to dirt until she parked in a shaded place with the trees pressing close in around them. Wolverine got out of the car, looking around the forest. A Canada warbler's song echoed through the trees from about 200 meters away. A badger had passed here since the rain, along with a dozen rodents and a couple squirrels. The bird flitted low overhead, followed by two others—heading for water. Likely running water, with the incline the car had taken to get there. Perhaps a small lake. He could smell a prey track in the grass between the trees.

"I thought it would be good for you to get back out here," Heather said, laying out a blanket on the grass beneath the shade of the trees. Wolverine came forward, setting the cooler down next to her and not stopping his scan of the trees.

He couldn't smell any big predators, though. Some old scat left behind by a black bear that had stripped a nearby bush of its berries, but the signs were days old.

Heather watched him, marveling. She'd almost forgotten how he was in the woods, even though it had only been a couple days for both of them. He'd stepped out of the car and turned around, and she could see him drinking in his surroundings. She wondered what it was like for him—how much she couldn't see.

He seemed to sense her watching, and turned to catch her eye. He frowned, but came forward, kneeling on the blanket across from her.

Heather pulled out a folder, flipping it open, and reached into her purse for a pen.

"I thought we'd try to see what's hidden in that head of yours. You know—see how much you might remember about things, even if you don't realize it right now. First . . . what about you?"

Wolverine frowned at her.

"Don't worry, there's just some questions. Nothing too personal," she said with a flash of a smile. Teasing? It made his heart skip a beat, and he felt his own lips want to quirk upwards.

"Number one: 'What's your name?' Well, we can fill out that one now, can't we?" Heather smiled at him, holding out the pen. Logan looked down at the paper, frowning.

"Okay. I'll write it. _Logan_." The name—hot and cold again. He wondered if it would ever stop hurting. Heather wrote it carefully on the paper—black letters forming out of whiteness. "L-O-G-A-N?" She showed it to him. "Does that look right?"

He nodded with a half-shrug. It didn't look wrong, at least.

"Good. So. The next . . . ah, another easy one." She smiled at his uneasy expression, trying to put him at ease. "What's your favorite color?"

He stared at her.

"You know . . . blue, green, red, purple, yellow?" Nothing. "Brown? Black, white?"

Wolverine frowned. "I . . . dunno." He could recall first remembering color. The blue sky. The green plants. The red blood, yellow flowers growing on the side of a deep-ridged tree. Brown dirt and black rocks and white snow, far as the eye could see. But a favorite one? He'd never bothered to wonder.

Heather swallowed the lump that had formed unexpectedly in her throat. It was a such an easy question—one of the most basic that a person knew about themselves, and he came up with a blank. "It . . . it's okay, Wolvie. It's not important. We'll just skip it, and come back if you decide—"

"What's yours?" he rumbled softly. "Color. Your favorite color?" He looked up, meeting her eyes for a moment before looking back down.

Heather smiled despite herself. "Green," she said. "Like springtime."

"Green," Wolverine repeated, emphasizing the word. He looked over at the trees—the budding blossoms opening, then looked back at her—at her soft green eyes behind her glasses. He nodded to the questionnaire, deadly serious. "Green," he repeated firmly.

Heather laughed softly despite herself. "No need to rush into it. I'll leave it blank—I'll give this to you to finish off later, okay?"

Heather skimmed over a handful of questions with barely a glance at him: _How old are you? Where are you from? What kind of music do you like best? When and where were you born? What nationality are you? What's your hometown like? Have you got a big family? When's your birthday? What do you like doing in your free time?_

She looked over at him. He was looking off into the trees again—distracted by something she couldn't hear. Well, no harm in asking.

They worked their way through the questionnaire. Some questions they talked through an answer for. Most, they left blank. For later, Heather said. To fill in as he remembered more.

_If I spoke to a friend, what characteristics would s/he use to describe you?_

He had stared at her before saying: a freak. Heather had choked in the middle of getting a drink from a water bottle at that—told him he wasn't a freak at all. She had ended up filling that one out for him_: strong, curious, cautious._

Some bothered him—some just left him feeling like he was staring at a blank wall. He didn't know anything about music—and his age . . . he just knew he didn't like that question at all. His birthday? That had made him think of ice and cold. Not a kid. Never had been one.

"Do you speak French? "

"Yes."

"With Remy?"

Wolverine nodded.

Heather looked at the next question.

"What do you have in your bedroom?"

He looked at her sideways. "A clock. Shelves. Books. Lots of books. A bed." He shrugged, reaching for another sandwich (his third). They'd broken out the food early, when his stomach had given a sudden growl.

"Ah. So you do," she said, bending over to write that in.

"What?"

"Speak French." She looked up, pausing at his expression. "You didn't even realize it, did you?" At his expression, she just shook her head. "You were just speaking French, Wolvie. Perfect, as far as I can tell."

He shrugged at that.

_What food do you like? _Stew, like the kind at the cabin. And beer._ What is your favorite month? _He'd settled on the present one—April. Apparently there were twelve, all about 30 days long—something to do with the moon, Heather said. He figured that made sense—he'd seen the moon grow big and then shrink down to nothing, though how many times he couldn't remember. Months in the woods, then. Funny. Felt longer.

_What's your favorite season? _ There were four—winter, spring, summer, fall. He'd settled on spring—remembering the river flowing, and the snow going away. He couldn't remember summer, or fall—when the leaves changed colors and fell away, and winter came again.

He grimaced at that. He'd hoped the winter would never come back. The memories were hazy, but the bitter cold made his teeth and fingers and toes ache just at the memory.

_Have you ever traveled abroad? _They were in Canada, Heather explained—she even opened up a book she'd brought to show him a map of the place. He shrugged at that one, but had stared at the map for a long time. He didn't know, but the map felt almost familiar. He didn't know . . . but he thought he had. Couldn't be sure.

_If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?_ When he'd shrugged she'd just asked him to point to the map, anywhere. He'd frowned over it for long minutes before letting his finger rest on a small island to the east—Japan, the words said. Heather made a thoughtful sound before writing it down. "That's very far away. Very different from Canada."

Somehow, he already knew that, and he gave back the map without looking at it again. Japan. Like in the magazine at the cabin. White flowers raining down off of trees like snow.

_Do you like working individually or in a team? _Easy. "Alone." Less people to get hurt.

"What are your strengths and weaknesses?" It was going to be another harder question, Heather realized. He seemed to have an easier time answering questions that weren't strictly self-reflective.

Wolverine tilted his head, but instead of speaking he looked into the woods and held up a finger—and Heather looked up, following his gaze to a deer that had found its way out of the trees and was now standing just a few paces away.

Wolverine lifted the finger to his lips, standing slowly, and then slipped into the trees.

She kept an eye on him until he vanished into the shadows behind a thick bush. She couldn't hear him—not even a rustle in the trees, even with his boots on. Funny. Those steel-toed boots weren't meant for stealth, yet it didn't seem to affect him in the slightest.

A minute ticked by. The deer lowered its head to graze, and Heather bit her lip, still scanning the trees.

But there—Wolverine appeared again, crouched at the tree line only a few feet behind the deer. She hadn't heard him move, and obviously the deer hadn't either.

Heather smiled, only to freeze at the memory of something Remy had told her . . . about a deer, and Wolverine's manner of dining in the wild. She looked down at the four empty sandwich bags on the blanket—he'd eaten them all, and finished off hers when she offered, and looked disappointed when there was nothing more.

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, but her warning to the deer was cut off as Wolverine simply stepped forward, reaching forward to rest his hand on the deer's side for a moment.

The deer's head jerked around and it bounded off as if struck by a lightning. It was gone in a blink, and Heather stared at Wolverine, who grinned at her—looking as at peace as he ever had.

His expression faltered at the look on her face. "What?"

"I—I just . . . never mind."

Wolverine's expression fell, and he hunched slightly, looking back to where the deer disappeared. "Wasn't gonna kill it. Not hungry," he said.

"Of course not," Heather said. He gave her a sideways look, and she suddenly felt as if he could see right through her white lie. She straightened her glasses. "How did you learn to do that?"

"Had to," he said softly, kneeling on the blanket next to her. He offered no more explanation, and she didn't ask.

TBC . . .


	53. The Persistence of Memory

Hahaha. You thought I'd disappear again for months on end, didn't you? Well, I fooled you. lol.

Kidding. But yeah. Like I said, I'm trying to get back on a schedule. Look for new chapters Thursday-Friday, either every week or every other. I'm going to try to get at least 2 chaps out a month, though we'll see if I can go as high as 4 chaps per month. :)

Thanks for the reviews. I pour over every one, and for you few who write loooong reviews-I often go back and reread them as I'm working on the next chapter for posting. So write them as long as you wish, because I horde every word as if it's made of gold. I love to hear your hypotheses of where this is going and to hear what you liked best out of the chapters. It makes me grin ear-to-ear. :)

This is a super-long chapter, and you can kind of tell by its sloppy structure that I was trying to push the direction forward. I apologize for the pacing-I know it could use a good deal more work, but I'm really wanting to get to the next few chapters. Still, I hope you enjoy the chapter.

Oh yes, and please remember to review :):)

* * *

Chapter 53: The Persistence of Memory

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine shut the door behind him, still grimacing at the taste of toothpaste. He'd almost done a spit-take when Mac had tried showing him how to brush his teeth—the taste was plain _vile_. His tongue still felt on fire from the strength of it, even after spending ten minutes trying to wash it out after the initial gag.

He flicked on the lamp next to the bed and lay down, one arm beneath his head as he stared at the stuccoed ceiling.

Time for bed. People did that, it seems. Had a schedule to sleep—at night, when it's dark. Time to go to sleep, time to wake up. Time to eat, to go to work, to come home. He wasn't used to it.

And tired as he felt, he didn't _feel_ like sleeping. If he'd been in the woods, he would have used his restlessness to walk another few miles.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

The clock on the wall ticked seconds quietly away.

Wolverine stood abruptly, striding to the wall and staring at the clock hanging there before reaching to carefully pull it down. He eyed it, shaking it carefully, but the soft _tick, tick, tick_ stepped steadily onward. He frowned, then walked back to the bed and stuck it under the mattress before flopping back again.

Now it was too quiet. No wind, no trees, no birds or rustling of mice or rabbits. No sound. Just silent and still. Even his breathing felt contained—his heart beat loud in his ears.

He rose again, running his hand through his hair as he got to his feet

It'd been nice to go back to the woods, but it left his legs restless. Talking so long, even though it was nice to talk with Heather. But he didn't like to see the looks that Heather couldn't keep from her face when he was stopped dead at questions he felt he should know.

There were just too many questions, and not enough answers

He paused, his eye caught by the questionnaire Heather had given him earlier that day. He hesitated, but then picked the pen from the top of it and lifted it carefully.

_Name: Logan_. It was written gracefully in her hand—looped and slanted, different from the square-like letters in the magazine at the cabin, and of the typed question itself. He traced the letters with a finger that looked clumsy and awkward beside the delicate writing, then paused on the second question.

_Favorite color._

He paused, then picked up the pen and glanced at Heather's neat handwriting before carefully adjusting the pen in his hand and writing as neatly as he could. It was easier than he thought it would be.

_Favorite color_: _green_.

Like grass, and spring, and Heather's eyes.

He looked at the answer for a long moment, tilting his head at the difference in their handwriting, but at last set it back down, satisfied.

He looked around the room, inhaling deeply, and snorting at the dusty scent of the room, and then paused, drifting forward towards the nearest bookshelf.

It was dusty, but he could smell the touch of people on it. Heather. Mac. Some others that he didn't recognize; the scents were fading, but the books were worn and used: read, some multiple times. He reached forward, pulling one out and glancing at the title before setting it aside. Then another. And another.

Soon there were more books on the floor than on the shelves—one stack had slid to the side, forming a stepped ramp to its foundation. Half he returned to the shelves, but he eventually drifted back towards the bed and the night hours pressed their way forward.

"Wolvie! I—oh!" Heather pushed open the door as the sky was beginning to lighten, but stopped. Logan was already out of bed—fully dressed, his hair no more ruffled from sleep than it usually was as he sat on the floor next to the bed. Books were pulled from the shelves, scattered along the floor. It looked like every drawer had been pulled open and explored: a hand mirror and an opened box of sea shells sat next to the table lamp—laid out carefully as if carefully examined before being set in their places. Something from under the bed was pulled out, and the clock was missing from the wall.

Heather could imagine him, up late into the night, sniffing around—curious. She wondered how they hadn't heard anything . . . though considering how careful Wolverine always seemed about making noise she supposed she shouldn't have been surprised. She smiled at Wolverine's wary expression as he saw her look around the room.

She closed her mouth and smiled. "It's all right. We'll clean up later. I was just wondering—breakfast?"

Wolverine carefully placed a slip of paper as a bookmark in the book, and looked at her for a long moment. Heather glanced at the book—it was a copy of _Call of the Wild_, of all things—and then looked back at him.

"Breakfast," he agreed at last, with the slightest hint of a smile. She wondered what he was thinking.

As she flipped the pancakes and Mac talked easily with Wolverine over the morning paper, Heather couldn't help but hope the book didn't send him running back into the mountains. She chuckled, shook her head at herself, and joined them at the table.

"Thanks, honey," Mac said, kissing her as she sat, and then pulling her in for one that lasted a fraction longer. "I love you," he said.

Wolverine frowned at them.

Love?

He watched Heather as she pulled back, smiling at her husband. He took her hand, and kept it looped loosely in his at they ate.

Love.

The word felt warm—but not uncomfortably so. Like something soft and quiet had settled into his chest.

Love.

Was that love?

_Love_.

It was quiet words, spoken together. Touching hands, secret smiles. The smell of attraction, and trust.

He watched them, and felt something else—an edge of pain. Something gnawing at him, like a bullet working its way out of his chest.

Love?

He shook his head, wondering, at put it to the back of his thoughts to keep an eye on. To learn.

There was so much to learn. So much to change, as he settled into life with Heather and Mac.

After a couple days Wolverine started going running in the morning with James after the man had popped into his room before the sun had risen. It was only a few miles, though Mac seemed winded and sore after the fact. The second Sunday he limped into the living room with two rifles in hand, finding Wolverine already awake and sitting on the couch, ready to go. Wolverine eyed the guns warily—not tensing visibly, but sitting relaxed in such a way that it was clear he could be on his feet in a millisecond.

"I thought we'd take a break from running for a day. I'm not as young as I used to be." Mac grinned, holding out a gun. "Thought we'd try something else out instead. How do you feel about rabbit hunting?"

Wolverine perked up.

They'd brought home five rabbits—easy takes, with gunshots clean through the heads: Logan had taken each down before Mac had even seen them.

Heather had paled at the sight of the five dead animals they brought home at midday, and Wolverine had quickly swept them up and outside, only to return a few minutes later to wash his hands and turn over the neatly skinned and sliced meat. Mac had beamed and clapped him on his shoulder like a proud father.

"You should have seen our boy out there," Mac said as they ate honey-roasted rabbit for dinner that night. "Not a thing got by him—not a thing. And his way in the woods—I took my eyes off him for a second and he vanished: not a sound, and suddenly he was gone. Not to mention his aim. Took a rabbit down from across a meadow—had to be 100 meters at least—didn't even pause to aim."

"That's amazing," Heather smiled, putting a hand on Wolverine's arm. "So it's thanks to you that we have such a great dinner."

"Tastes better cooked," Wolverine admitted, helping himself to fourths. He dug in, glancing at Heather with a stumbling compliment, "Ya . . . ya did good with it."

It made Heather smile, though, and he couldn't help but give his hesitant beginnings of a smile in return.

The next day she went in to his room to find that he'd uncovered a box of articles from under the guest bed. Wolverine had discovered her collection on superheroes—the _Time _article introducing the Fantastic Four, the essays on Captain America and his legendary work during World War II before he went MIA. Mysterious occurrences from streaks of fire in the sky to stories of supposedly dead men coming back to life, and a score other unexplained instances and sightings. The letter she'd written defending James' actions when he'd fled from the government trying to take over his work on his suit, and the contract that kept his project private while allowing him the authority to begin to work to create a Canadian team. By the sight of it he'd gone through all of them.

He went with them to work after that first week—often hovering like an invisible shadow, and going through the occasional exercise when Heather asked him to: as much as he glowered at strangers, he was nothing but eager to help if Heather asked, and he never got in the way. He was so quiet one day that Heather forgot he was even there, but turned to find that he'd pulled out her shelf of books behind her desk and flipped through a biology reference book-he'd left it open in the middle of a section on the skeletal system on the floor beside him-and was in the middle of perusing an old thesis.

"Professor Xavier's ideas were far ahead of his time," Heather said when she saw him reading. "He predicted the existence of mutants as far back as the 1960s, and presented a surprisingly accurate view of both the physical and social implications of their existence." She hesitated. "Do you understand it?"

Wolverine shrugged, then nodded. "Guy writes boring as hell, but yeah." His voice was soft as ever—she'd never heard it louder than that soft murmur—but at least he was speaking more. Around her, at least, and sometimes Mac.

But that was one of the surprising things Heather learned about him in those beginning days. While his stumbling conversation was growing more common around her and James, he was practically mute around anyone else. At least he'd stopped glaring down everyone he came across unless he caught them staring, but even while his eyes never roamed Heather had the feeling that he knew exactly where everyone was around him, all the time.

But for all of his rough and feral manner, they had discovered a surprising thing: Wolverine was an avid reader.

Though maybe an avid reader wasn't exactly right. Avid _learner_. He had a grown man's brain, but a child's curiosity. He watched people like a study—often she caught him watching _her_ that way.

What was an intelligent outsider's view of humanity? She couldn't help but wonder.

It had begun with _Call of the Wild_, which Heather thought might be a short catch for his attention. But the next night it was _And Then There Were None, _by Agatha Christie, followed by three more of her murder mysteries in the next three days until he got distracted by a tattered copy of _Animal Farm_, which Heather had honestly never gotten through and now couldn't help but wonder what he saw in it. Almost every day it seemed he came out of the bedroom with a new book, and every day his speech came a little clearer, a little more confident. Though Mac had almost done a spit-take when he'd gravely quoted Voltaire at him at the dinner table as he was enthusing over his progress of his suit and the team.

"I'm hoping to have a complete working prototype by the end of the week, and Dr. Twoyoungmen said he's considering joining after I talked him around a bit. Things are coming together like we couldn't hope," Mac said. "This time we live in . . . it's the best of worlds it?"

"If this is the best of all possible worlds . . ." Wolverine said absently, half-mumbling and not looking up from his plate. "What are the others?"

Mac blinked, and Heather stared. Wolverine looked up, and, catching their glances, his eyes hooded.

"Was that . . . _Candide_?"

Wolverine frowned. Heather could almost see his mind working—trying to see if he'd said something wrong.

"Should he even be reading that?" Mac asked, recovering.

"It's fine," Heather said quickly, seeing Wolverine's expression. "He just means it's a little . . . crude." Again, she couldn't help but wonder what the heck Wolverine had thought as he had read the book.

Wolverine looked at her, expression unreadable, and put a chunk of meat in his mouth. "It's real," he said around the food.

Heather glanced at Mac. It had gotten to the point that they were no longer surprised to find some of his gaps—they seemed as random as they could be. "Actually, Wolvie, it's called _fiction_. It's a story someone made up. Some of it sounds real, and it maybe even _could_ happen, but it's just pretend. Some books are real, of course—"

But Wolverine was already shaking his head. He swallowed the meat. "Yeah, yeah," he said. "But it's . . . " He struggled for the word. ". . . _truth_." He gestured outward slightly with his fork—something close to a shrug. "It's . . . People. Humans. _Life._" But then he paused, looking at her sideways—but closely. Closer than most people ever dared to look. The kind of scrutiny that Heather wanted to give him—to see right into his head. She cleared her throat, not entirely comfortable under it, but after a moment he looked away and turned back to his meal.

He didn't like to talk about the books much, though. She kept an eye on what he was reading after that, but her questions were often met with a shrug, or a one-word answer. But he kept reading, night after night, book after book.

She wondered if he slept more than a couple hours. She wondered if he needed to. He looked tired in the morning, but at least she hadn't heard of any more nightmares.

As the third week opened they had settled into a comfortable routine. Mac seemed to love having Wolverine around—going so far as to take him out to throw a ball around one evening after dinner, and taking him to a hockey game for a guy's night out. After that, they sat on the couch and watched the games together at home, and Wolverine—_Logan_, Heather kept forgetting to call him, not that he seemed to mind—was just as into it as they were, though she kept catching him watching her from his sitting position on the floor, which he preferred, though he quickly looked away when she noticed him watching.

That third week, he went with her to the store, and the trip took twice as long as usual between him sniffing to inspect what they passed and how he stopped pushing the grocery stop dead whenever someone drew close. Only a word and a touch of his arm would break him from his sideways glare at them, and Heather couldn't help but smile. He looked so out of place—strangely vulnerable despite his near-invulnerability—but darn it if he wasn't trying to protect _her._

He and Mac grew thick as thieves, though Wolverine's response to Mac's constant joking and talking was usually just a small smile or a soft, short response.

An evening a couple days later she found the two men talking in hushed tones in the kitchen, and they cut short when she stepped in on them. Mac smiled at her innocently, but Wolverine's face was unreadable as stone.

They wouldn't crack on what they'd been talking about, and they disappeared for a couple hours later that night. The next day Mac stopped her when she went to knock on Wolverine's door—apparently he wanted to stay home for the day.

Heather had worried, though Mac had insisted nothing was wrong. What if something had frightened Wolverine? Or offended him, since the idea of him being afraid was somewhat ludicrous. After their progress, to think that she might have pushed him away somehow . . .

God. No matter that he was visibly at least a few years older than them, and likely older than that besides . . . she almost looked at him as a child-innocent as he was in so many ways-no matter how silly it was. She was distracted at work that day—kept glancing back to where he usually sat on the floor in the corner. Clarke came in around lunch, asking if they had made any progress on getting Wolverine on board for the department, but Heather had snapped at him: Wolverine would make that decision on his own, _when_ he was ready.

But her worries were stilled when she got home with Mac that afternoon to find Wolverine standing on the newly painted front porch—paint smudged on his cheek and into one of his sideburns. He grinned as she gaped at him and laughed, though he started when she threw her arms around his neck. He blinked, then put his arms awkwardly around her before she pulled back.

"All his idea," Mac said, clapping Wolverine on the shoulder. "Said he wanted to do something to help out, and noticed the paint was a bit weathered. A big job, but he got it done."

"Thank you, Logan," Heather said, and Wolverine gave one of his rare smiles.

She didn't know it, but for the first time, the name hadn't hurt one bit.

* * *

_Now:_

_Frost's been settling in all right. 'S been a week. It's nice havin' someone else takin' over some classes, and with Beast back on his feet—even if he is limpin'—it's almost back to normal. Or I guess as normal as it gets around here._

_Kitty still won't look at Frost without glarin' like she's tryin' to pull a Cyclops and blast her head right off. Beast is cold but cordial enough, and Crawler's polite to her as to anyone. Guy'll trust anyone until they give him a reason not to—figure that's why we're such good friends._

_I even hopped on over for a normal mission a couple days ago. Brought just 'Crawler, Rogue, and Pete—but some clowns decided to attack the mansion while we were gone. Some of Magneto's old crew—Toad, Blob . . . and some other B class baddies. Frost 'pparently felt 'em comin', and she had her new team lined up and the team in order soon as she could snap her fingers. Had the old boys runnin' off with their tails between their legs, and the whole mess cleaned up before we even made it back._

_Even Beast said she handled herself well. Not up to trustin' her fully, yet, but I—outta anyone—know some people deserve a second chance. Lady's been good so far. I'll let her watch my back until she tries to put a knife in it. Even if she manages that, I'll heal up in time to take her down anyway._

_Can't help but be tempted ta let her on Cerebro, just for a minute. If Storm's out there . . . _

_But I can't do that. Put a teep in there and there ain't a way to stop 'em._

_Needs t'prove herself a bit more than this, before I trust her that much._

_If it was that easy, we'd've found Storm already, and I'd be on my way to Madripoor._

_Lady's hidin' something, though. Seen her walking outside at night more than once, but she keeps her distance now. Some secret keepin' her from sleep. Wonder what it is. Beast says she was bad as anyone in the day, but I find it hard to imagine Emma Frost being kept up by guilt. She's as cold as ice._

_Trusted or not, she's already dug her fingers in tight here already. She's workin' hard to make a place here, and the kids are looking up to her whether we like it or not._

* * *

Emma Frost looked down at him coolly. She was taller than him—and even more so with the added height of heels—but the tilt of her head emphasized it even further. Her lips pursed slightly in thought, but her eyes narrowed.

"It wasn't a question," Logan said, turning away. "You, me, Rogue, Pete, 'Crawler, Kitty, Beast. Fifteen minutes. Call them up."

He could smell that she wasn't happy—she rarely was, when he pulled her out of her already-set routine, but at least she didn't argue this time. She might not like it, but no doubt she understood the need.

He headed down to the Danger Room, calling up a simple program with a punching bag to hit while he waited. He danced as the weight of it swung back and forth—strike, step. Strike-strike.

Metal knuckles shook the bag on its chain, and he pushed himself faster.

It'd been five days since he'd been fully back on his feet. Scars were all but gone, save for two fading red handprints on his neck—he knew from experience that those would take an extra day or two to fade—and Bloodscream had been cut into five pieces and hidden within a ten mile radius. Except the right arm. Logan had dropped that off on their latest mission in Philly. And the head—he'd encased that in concrete and tossed into the ocean.

Let's see him heal from that.

The days had passed strangely since their second meeting, though. Scars were fading, but his head felt like it was filled with restless wasps. Buzzing. He'd let his mind drift and come back to himself hours later—not sure what he was thinking about, but covered in a cold sweat. He'd flat out forgotten about promising to going out to a bar with Rogue—she swore that he'd asked _her_, but when she'd come looking for him he'd stared at her blankly.

He frowned, sweat breaking out on his skin as he continued his rhythm.

He was losing it. Needed to leave and sort his head out. Thing was, he couldn't help but recognize the thought that if he left he might just lose it completely without something to bring him back. The school needed him. Demanded his attention, and that kept him grounded.

Memories seeping in, memories seeping out.

Wondered if it would stop. Wondered if it ever would stop . . .

"End program." The bag froze in the middle of a backswing at Rogue. Logan blinked at it—he hadn't noticed that it had split through the front.

He turned, wiping his face. He glanced at the clock on the wall, hiding his reaction at the time. An hour had passed. An _hour?_ He kept his face blank, and turned to the gathered X-Men. "I said fifteen minutes, Frost."

"I'm not a sophisticated intercom for your personal use, Wolverine. I had things I had to see to. An earlier warning for these things would be helpful."

Logan ignored her, glancing back at the clock. But of course it _was_ right—the Danger Room adjusted itself to its settings, and the exercise room's clock was as accurate as it could be. But his mind felt clear enough. Even the wasps were quiet.

An hour, passed as if in minutes. He wiped the sweat from his face, hiding his thoughts, and faced them.

He folded his arms, looking the group over. "I picked you lot out 'cause we've been here the longest. We're the guys the kids look to when trouble comes. The—" _The alpha flight. _He frowned, but continued. "The first wave."

If anyone noticed his slight stumble, they didn't ask. Though Frost did lift an eyebrow, and Kitty was watching him. She'd been watching him closely since the second Bloodscream attack. If not the first.

Hadn't that been when it had all started? Bleeding out on the front porch, Storm bringing him back . . . then had come the nightmares of gunfire and wars that no living men should be able to remember.

"Time is we see how we fight together. _All _of us," he said, looking back at Kitty. The slim girl folded her arms, but didn't protest. She avoided looking at Frost so pointedly she might as well have turned and glared at her. She'd spent the last week pretending that the white queen didn't even exist. "Beast is gonna be in the observatory 'til he heals up, but for now—Frost, Kitty, Rogue, you're a team. Kurt, Pete—you're with me." He looked up to the observatory windows overhead. "Beast, you with us?"

"Indeed. Are we ready to begin?"

Wolverine nodded. "Put us on program 3B7." He never was one for fancy names. Half of the already-created names of the Danger Room settings had names like "King Arthur" and "Jurassic Park."

The program was one he'd put together some months before—nothing but a dark, shifting maze, with flags to find hidden throughout.

The teams split, though Kitty still avoided looking at Frost as they went off before the program started.

Black walls closed in, and Logan signaled to Kurt, who gave a white grin in his dark face and a thumbs up before flashing away to scout. Logan and Colossus crept forward, eyes alert.

Distantly they heard a shout and a crash—the enemy team was not the only danger programmed into these mazes, and even as Logan thought as much he felt the ground slip out from under him. Colossus leaped forward, grabbing a ledge and pulling himself up, but before he could turn and grab Wolverine's hand there was a _bamf_, and hands grabbed his shoulders before teleporting him safely to the other side of the black pit that had opened, lasers criss-crossing a few feet below.

Falling in would have left them "dead" and out of the game.

"Thanks, Elf," Logan gruffed.

"No problem," Kurt grinned, but Logan realized the stink of sulfur wasn't the only burning smell—and the other wasn't going away. The edge of Kurt's black suit was singed, though it looked like he'd avoided getting hit himself. "I vould avoid the right way, though."

They moved quickly forward, creeping along the walls. Logan's nose flared as he sought for telling scents—grease and oil and gas, and with Kurt scouting ahead they avoided most of the trouble. Still, they smashed their fair share of guns and machinery, working with their strengths. Wolverine trusted Pete and Kurt more than he'd ever trusted anyone.

_Except . . ._

Minutes passed, their small team working like a single unit, until they came to the clearing of the flag and went still as they looked across as Kitty, Emma, and Rogue emerged from their side. Kitty looked slightly disheveled, but Frost looked untouched—not a hair out of place.

"Go!" Logan shouted, and Kurt _bamfed _towards the target—a small glowing globe across the flat opening, some 50 meters away. Rogue gave a shout, lifting off the ground and blurring forward to catch him—and they both _bamfed_ away as the rest of them darted to the ball. A gap opened up beneath Kitty's feet and she yelped, turning almost mid-air and twisting to grab the edge. Colossus skidded to a stop behind her, barely avoiding falling in himself.

"Fastball!" Logan snapped, and Colossus didn't pause before grabbing the scruff of his jacket and launching him forward like a bullet.

Rogue had lost Kurt, though, and had turned her attention towards them. As Wolverine was rocketed into the air at a good 200 mph-a soft throw for the Ruskie-Rogue blasted downward, catching him in mid-air. Or tried to, at least.

She hit him with an "Ooof!" and with enough force that Wolverine might as well smashed into a wall. The impact threw them both back, off-balance and tumbling. Rogue hit the ground, leaving a groove where she skidded to the stop, but Wolverine careened wildly in the air before slamming head-first into the wall behind the target.

His vision went white, then black as the hornets rose up in his head like an angry mob, drowning out sight and thought and vision into greyness . . .

_Th-thump._

_Grrrrrrrrr._

_Consciousness raised its head like a weary beast, half-aware, wild, confused._

_He was sprawled on the filthy floor. His body ached from the position—chest-flat on the floor, his neck twisted._

_Something was in his throat—something thick, heavy—sticky. Like tar. He tried to swallow, but it caught, snagging his thin breath and jerking it down and away._

_He choked._

_The force knocked his face against the ground, and he recoiled instinctively, trying to pull into a ball, but something caught at his neck, jerking him back down as he hacked, coughing._

_Finally it came up—a thick, black stream of blood and . . . yeah, bullets. Half felt them slide over his tongue, knocking against his shattered teeth. It took longer each time for them to heal._

_Panic shot in at the lack of air, waking him faster than anything else could, and he tried to rise from the ground—keep himself from choking further._

_He jerked upwards, but he didn't even make it onto his palms before something tightened around his neck, digging into the skin. He gasped, choking again, and jerked back to the floor, heedless of the red-black sludge beneath him as he gasped wetly for air._

_He slid his hand up blindly, grasping at his neck, and finding the hard metal locked around his neck. He brought up his other hand, digging his fingers between the hard metal and his throat. He traced the chain looped from the collar with a shaking hand—it had been pulled tight and locked down. Was maybe 6 inches long. Not even long enough for him to turn his head._

_His heart thudded in his skull, and he strained against it, twisting his head. _

_He couldn't move. Paralyzed—pinned down, unable to move, to stand, to _see_. A terrible feeling of claustrophobia, choking him from the inside out._

_Stryker's boots stopped in front of his gaze, and he went still, his fingers still curled around the sharp metal._

_Distantly, he realized that Stryker was speaking. He sounded impossibly far away._

"_Going without sleep for 36 hours is like being drunk for a normal man. You've been awake for, what? A month now? I suppose it's hard to say—I'd say you've been flat-out _dead _a few times since then, and what does that count for? Still. You're a bar-lover, Logan; what's your opinion?" Something knocked against his leg—the toe of a boot, nudging him like nudging a corpse. "But then, you've never been drunk, have you? The men used to say how impossible it was that you could even sit up with how much you drank. That's just it. Tried to get drunk like a man, hurt like a man, die like a man. It just didn't work for you, did it?"_

_He let his fingers slip from the metal collar. His hand flopped into the filth below like a puppet with no strings._

"_But good as it's been, Wolverine—I'm here to say goodbye."_

_Something twisted inside of him, and emotion more than thought floated to the surface of his mind._

Hope, _if you could call it that._

_He'd forgotten what it felt like._

Had they finally—impossibly—found out how to kill him for good?

_Freedom . . ._

_Wolverine shut his eyes._

_So tired. So empty and shriveled. A husk, that was all.  
_

"_Not so fast," Stryker replied, but there was something in his tone that made Logan open his eyes again, staring at the drying blood on the floor inches from his eyes. "Not until you know exactly what's going to happen to you. 'Cause I want you to know, animal."_

_Dull black eyes stared into nothingness—waiting. Maybe not even listening. His eyes already looked dead._

_Stryker bent down, grabbing his jaw with a gloved hand and forcing his face upwards. Agony shot down his spine as his neck was twisted backwards, threatening to snap, but he didn't make a sound. Dilated eyes glazed upwards, barely seeing._

"_You're not going to die," Stryker breathed, his face floating in the darkness above him. "You can't die, Wolverine, so we're making you ours. There's a doctor—the professor. He's going to turn you inside out. Rip every last scrap of humanity from that animal hide of yours. You won't even remember who I am, or who you are. You'll be ours—mind, body, and soul: without thought, without memories, without choice. You won't even remember your own name. A weapon. Our weapon."_

Forget it all . . .

_Wolverine eyes flickered, and his eyes widened marginally._

_Itsu . . .  
_

Her_ face flashed before him—a memory of light in a world of darkness. Other faces, smiling, laughing, crying—dying. He could taste their blood._

_He'd long wished he could forget it all—the pain, the horror, the death._

But not like this. Not forget her.

_Pleased with a reaction at last, Stryker leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper._

"_Can you imagine it, animal? _Imagine it! _Die imagining the horror of nothing, like those who have died before you. Follow so many you've led into oblivion."_

_He let him go, and Logan's head dropped to thud against the stone._

"_Goodbye, Wolverine. Whatever fragment of humanity you've clung to__, you'll be no more. Let it be the last thought you ever think."_

_Stryker turned around. "Rope him up and take him to the lab."_

_Hands caught at him, grabbing his bound arms and pulling him to his feet as they wrenched the collar from around his neck. He gasped for air, but barely registered the physical as it bore down on him._

_The fury and terror from their handling was overwhelmed with the senseless rush of panic._

_He yanked his arm back, catching the man behind him in the gut and lunged, staggering as his legs refused to hold even his diminished weight. His fist slammed into Stryker's face before the collar yanked him back. His bare feet found no traction in the muck, and he went down onto his back—choking as the guard stepped on the chain, bringing him up short. A gun pressed against the side of his head, but he wheezed for breath, his limbs shaking from the exertion._

_He was wasted up—starved, dehydrated. Dead a hundred times—a thousand. How long had it been? How long?_

_His vision wavered in darkness—in and out. Black and grey._

_Stryker wiped the blood from his jaw, sneering as he looked down at Wolverine. The soldier bent down, teeth baring ferally as he pulled his head by the hair with a gloved hand, inches away from his face._

"_It'll take time," his harsh voice grated on ears like distant metal against metal. "Months-maybe even years. You'll feel yourself slipping, and there'll be nothing you can do to stop it. Above all else, animal—I want you to know what is being done to you as you drain away. Drop. By. Drop. We own you, Wolverine. Soul, heart," he looked his emaciated form up and down, his lips curled in disgust, "and body."_

_Stryker pulled back, and Wolverine's head dropped back onto his chest.  
_

"_Take him."_

Logan's eyes shot open—blackness at first, then grey, but he saw nothing. His ears rang—distantly he heard one calling his name—Logan. _Logan._

He staggered to his feet, a hand thrown out as he stumbled forward, a hand in front of him. He tasted blood in his mouth, felt the pain in his head as his vision swam in and out.

The Danger Room had gone blank, but he didn't see it as he raised his eyes. He could see them, his claws torn through uniforms and skin—faces and arms and guts. Wide eyes terrified, helpless. Rogue's corpse was walking towards him, her neck broken, her eyes rotting. The three claw marks where he'd cut her clean through. Kurt lay cut in two, Pete slumped against the wall with blank eyes staring.

He trembled.

_Logan._ Sounds rushing in like waves. Someone speaking to him, reaching out to him.

The words slipped by him—his mind was caught in nightmares. He threw out a hand in front of him and stumbled forward, until he reached the white halls and broke into a full out sprint.

No words, no thoughts. Just run.

_Run_.

He bolted out the back door of the mansion, sprinting across the deck and across the lawn. He dropped to his knees beyond the deck as his vision swam again, and he grabbed his head with a cry.

Too much. Too much.

"Ngh. Ngh. Ngh . . ." Logan rested his forehead on the walkway, the cooling stone feeling like ice against his burning forehead.

_Logan? Logan, can you hear me?_

Images and feelings—too dark, too mad to give words to. Panic welled up, sickness making him want to heave until he choked out his lungs—tightness, bearing him down like a thousand oceans, drowning him. Claws digging to his heart—shredding him from the inside out.

Run. Run. _Run._

Fingernails dug through the skin of his scalp. Deep inside, he screamed.

_Wolverine?_

A hand touched his shoulder. He reacted without thinking.

Claws shot out as he twisted, ripping clean through Emma Frost—but there was no blood, no tear of bone-from-bone. He passed clean through her, as if she'd been phased like Kitty.

"Non-corporeal form, Logan. I'm all in your head; you can't hurt me."

She lifted her hand, and a knife of agony stabbed through his brain, slicing between his eyes. He staggered, grabbing his head again and falling to his knees, but the pain was already passing. He looked up, his eyes watering. The pain had cracked his fury, letting sanity rush in like a flood. He gasped, the taste of blood from his mouth vanishing; it hadn't been there in the first place.

He stared up at Emma Frost, his hands lowering slowly from his head. The buzzing was gone, the panic stifled, and though his hands shook his mind was suddenly clear—the memories falling screaming and howling into the distance.

All in his head. Nobody had died. It wasn't here or now. _Past._

Logan shut his eyes. _Logan_. Him. He breathed in the scent the frozen dirt, the ice on the air. Felt dusting of snow melting on his feverish skin, could hear the wind across the lawn. Open.

Free.

_Past._

He opened his eyes, looking up at Emma Frost. She didn't look alarmed—but there was a level of wariness to her eyes.

"What're you doin' here?" he rasped, climbing to his feet slowly. "I could'a killed you."

"In your state I could hardly just let you go," Emma replied, a bit coolly. "If your mind was fragmented when we first met, it is twice the mess now." Logan looked away. "How long have you been having these experiences?"

His mouth was stone-dry. "Stay outta my damn head, Frost," he croaked, wiping his mouth. The memory of the thirst was still there—he felt like he hadn't had a drink in days.

_Months? Years?_

He hid a shudder, swallowing thickly.

No. Just hallucinations. All in his head.

But it had been so real—so vivid. A memory? Just the thought made his stomach twist.

"You brought me here to protect the students, Wolverine. You are hardly safe to be around as you are. Now how long have these been happening?"

Logan pulled back, rubbing his eyes.

"Wolverine, I don't need to tell you how serious this is. Out of control like that, there would be few—if any—of your X-Men that would have been able to neutralize you, let alone willing to do what had to be done until it was too late. Your mind . . . it was as if you weren't even there any more. It was as if you'd checked out, and . . . " Frost didn't shiver, but her pause gave the impression of one. "_Something_ took your place. Talk to me, Logan. I'm a telepath—I'm the best help you'll get."

Maybe the lady was right.

"Dreams're normal," he began slowly. His voice sounded strange to his own ears—tight and hoarse, and far, far away. Almost a stranger's voice. "They've changed, though—gotten worse, if anythin', and added . . . everythin' else. My mind's just finally crackin'." Tried to put a little humor in that last bit. It fell flat before it left his mouth.

"Since your first encounter with Bloodscream." Logan looked over to shoot a glare at her, but she stared back, untouched by it. "I saw it in several of the students' minds. You should not be surprised—you are a central part of their lives, and they are not _all_ stupid enough not to have noticed your change, and the possible cause."

"That bastard to blame for this too, eh?" Logan grunted, dry-washing his face.

"It is possible."

"Can you get them to stop?"

Emma considered him. "Do you want them to?"

He huffed a sound—a laugh? Even he couldn't have said. "Lady, every time I try to sleep I'm livin' a nightmare, and I can't let my guard down 'cause I keep gettin' . . . blindsided."

His breath hitched and he squeezed his eyes shut against a sudden returning wave of vague panic—so overwhelming, so insubstantial. It was impossible to talk himself down from it, because he didn't know where to begin.

Emma actually flinched slightly at that—finally. Logan opened his eyes and glared at her. She must've peered into his head again.

"I see," she said, looking pale even for her, and perhaps a little green.

Damn her. _Damn her_ for looking. Damn her for seeing. Damn her!

_Chained like a dog, sleeping in his own filth, barely a man—stripped and beaten._

He looked away and gritted his teeth, letting his rage rise to cover a sudden self-loathing so thick it made him feel sick. Emma stepped back, rubbing her forehead.

Logan reined in his rage, but he was panting again. He tasted bile in his throat.

_Run. Away from her eyes. Away from all their eyes._

"Has this ever happened before?" Frost continued, as if nothing had happened. Wolverine took a deep breath.

"Like I said. Dreams've been happening long 's I remember."

"Yet you've long suspected they are far more than dreams. Before now you've hardly seen beyond vague impressions—flashes of pain and fear. Intense, surely, but not so overwhelming as now. But do you remember other times, perhaps—when . . ." She frowned to herself.

"When what?"

"Rogue remembers the weather witch saying you were badly injured. She actually found you dead?"

Logan shrugged, scowling at nothing. "Storm said she had ta jump start my heart, but who gives a damn?"

Emma took that in stride—probably the first who ever had. Had to admire a woman like that. "How many times has that happened?"

Logan lifted his eyebrow. "That I've died? Dunno—am I supposed to keep count?" She lifted an impatient eyebrow to mirror his. Wouldn't take any attitude, even from him. "Hard t'say. Not like I go 'round countin' my heartbeat."

"Guess."

He shrugged. "That I remember?" He ran his hand through his hair absently. He was silent for a moment, then squinted back at her. "Dunno. Seven? Eight?" Thirty? A hundred?

_A thousand?_

She nodded matter-of-factly. "And think—during any of these times did you notice a shift in your consciousness? A significant change in your perspective?"

Logan rubbed his forehead, swallowing again. His throat felt like sandpaper. "What . . . what are you trying to get at, Frost?"

"Quite simply: your mind has been scarred in a way that your body cannot be. It looks like it has been drawing itself together over time, but I theorize—and understand that this is little more than a guess with your stubborn refusal to let me in for a better look—that your mind is still healing from your experience with Weapon X."

Logan looked at her, eyes sharp and suddenly measuring. _Weapon X?_ It made his hair raise on end—it was what Jubilee had told him about, that night when they had spoken. Weapon X. Experiment X. Him.

_But how did Frost know about it?_

But he let her keep going. "Perhaps the psychological healing takes place parallel to the physical," she mused. "Perhaps it is the trauma of the very experience of death that is causing blocked memories to surface. Or perhaps brain damage suffered during the fight or during the oxygen deprivation after your temporary death causes breakdown of blocks or destroys the scarred parts of your mind and is forcing your healing factor to create new bridges to memories once lost. To put it simply, brain damage—even when your brain is just knocked around in your skull like just now—may literally jogging your memories free."

She really had put some thought into this. "You sayin' these really are memories?" he said slowly. "All of them?"

"I said perhaps," Frost replied. "Given what I have to work with, you cannot expect more than rough conjectures. After all, for all we know these could be remnants of training, memory implants, even telepathic residues."

Logan's expression was as unreadable as stone, and twice as hard.

"Which leads us to the point," she said. "It seems that each time you have sustained significant head trauma—scrambling your brains, in a sense—"

Nice, that.

"—then your brain cells may be reconnecting in ways that have long since been severed. The trauma of the memories, however, have created blocks. They are falling, but slowly. Fortunately," she said, though her tone made the word made the word sound empty. "Any faster and you would have an even harder time dealing with it than you are now."

Logan glared and turned away, looking across the grounds as he wiped sweat from his face.

"Can you stop it?" he asked again.

She looked at him for a long moment—or at least her psychic projection did. He wondered how that worked, exactly. She looked solid as anything, and her ice blue eyes looked straight at his, only serious now. "I could try locking the memories away again. It would not hold forever, but perhaps delay it for a time."

Logan shook his head. He was never one for delaying the inevitable.

"If I'm close, I can at least help contain you if the situation arises. Like just now." He looked at her sharply, and her lips curved in a slight smile. "I pulled you out of that black mire, Wolverine. It was either that or let you run until you dug yourself out, and that was something I did not want to risk. If my prediction is correct, they should die down once this group of memories works its way out into your consciousness and you handle them appropriately. And once you go a fair amount of time without dying or sustaining significant brain injury, of course."

Logan lifted a dry eyebrow at her, but the last sentence was dry and factual, if a bit wry. He looked away.

A scattering of snow drifted across the winter-yellowed grass. The setting sun made the sky look the color of blood against the grey sky.

Wolverine rubbed his neck, but then pulled it down when he realized what he was doing. He could almost still feel the metal digging around his throat. The claustrophobia as he struggled to breathe.

_Drowning_. He clenched a fist at his side, reaching into a pocket for a cigar. He took his time to light up, and got it going good before speaking again.

"So what's _your_ secret, Frost? What keeps you up at night?"

Emma paused—her psychic image staring away at nothing for a moment. She looked away, but surprisingly, she answered. "My school. It was destroyed. Bombed by mutant-haters. My students—all of them—just . . . dead. And I should have died with them. A mistake saved me. _Luck_." She said that word bitterly—a crack in the ice at last.

Logan followed her gaze across the grass. _Survival's guilt_.That's what kept her up at night.

"I guess you'd know about that," Emma Frost replied, obviously reading his thoughts. For once, Logan let it go.

They stood in silence, watching the sun go down.

TBC . . .


	54. The Clod and the Pebble

Okay, people. It looks like it's going to be like this.

I'm going out of town the first full week of February (the 5-10), so I thought I'd try something new and warn you beforehand that you aren't getting a new chap during that week. So it looks like I'm going to skip next week due to craziness of recent times and me putting in a little time to work on an original story I'm working on, but then be posting chapter 55 (currently titled "Reaching") the first couple days of February, and then chapter 56 (currently titled "Deep Breath") a couple weeks later.

In a nutshell, posting over the next month looks like it might go every-other week:

Today=Chapter 54

First week of February=Chapter 55

Third week of February=Chapter 56.

It may be sooner than that if I manage to get more work done than I'm expecting the next few days, but this is the plan for now.

Just wanted to give a heads up, so you don't think I disappeared again.

To all you new readers I've been seeing on my view count slip in and out-please remember to review! Short or long, doesn't make a difference to me, and I often take time to respond if you want. For all you who have taken the time-thank you!

I hope you've been enjoying the longer chapters, and the story itself. :)

* * *

Chapter 54: The Clod and the Pebble

* * *

_There are so many levels of being human. Figure most people don't even realize it._

_Yeah, there's the basic stuff. Feelings and doing the things humans do . . . but it's the smaller things that bring you in or keep you out. Take language. Doesn't matter if you know how to talk—there's a thousand different things that come together for communication, a thousand different meanings, and beneath the meanings there's a millennia of history and a lifetime of understandin' that goes a thousand times deeper than anythin' you can put into words._

_That goes for all knowledge. People take it fer granted that you grow up knowin' some things. Your favorite color, fer instance. Your birthdate, your age. Makes ya wonder who first started askin' those questions, or keepin' track of them at all. The only reason they're important is because they've been made important._

_It's part of being human, and it wouldn't matter a bit, except that it does._

* * *

_Then: _

Wolverine frowned as he flipped to the third channel in as many minutes. Mac and Heather didn't have many channels—at least, that's what they told him—but what they did have held faces and words enough for a thousand books. Watching people, but they didn't stare back, or jump when they saw him watching.

Faces from around the world—with a million different features and styles and clothing. Words that sounded strange at first, but settled into his mind with meaning as he listened. Talk of murder and theft and crime—the news. And other things—with people he couldn't see laughing over something that he guessed must be funny, but he didn't understand. _Fiction._

He had paused on the one channel to watch something he didn't recognize—a _sport, _like hockey—something with a small round ball rather than a puck, and a . . . _square_ field on the grass. They didn't wear the pads and helmets either, but Wolverine grew bored after a few minutes of waiting for something—_anything_—to happen. It wasn't hockey. Something called . . . _baseball_. He wondered what the point of it was.

He'd discovered an interest in the television the night before, after Heather had turned on the news. She hadn't let him stay up to explore—the noise would have kept her awake, and Mac—but he'd made a beeline to it after they got back from the base the next day. Sometimes the words were hard to make out—they talked fast—and his nose twitched in vain, trying to get a scent of the people inside the screen . . . but of course he couldn't. It wasn't them. Just a recording. An image. Could be from anywhere.

Still, now and again his nose twitched as the channel showed a new place, or a new face. He felt almost blind—there was no dimension to the pictures, and the faces blurred together in his head. Words and faces and places . . . there was so much. Too much, sometimes—it made his brain buzz like wasps had climbed inside. So _big._

He heard Mac stepping down the hall and paused on his flipping through the channels—he'd passed this one already, anyway, though a different show was on this time around.

Mac was going out. He could smell it in his leather coat he was still pulling on, smell that he was wearing his shoes: he'd spilled some spaghetti sauce from his lunch on one of them, and he could still pin the smell, no matter that he had wiped it away. Wolverine looked up as he paused, eying him.

Collared shirt. He'd seen some people wearing collared shirts—white, with suits. Mac mostly wore lightly colored ones—sometimes a thing around his neck . . . a _tie._ Wolverine couldn't imagine wearing one of those. Just the thought made him swallow thickly. He was getting used to wearing more clothes, but the though of that made him feel . . . claustrophobic.

Stupid to wear, anyway. Anyone could grab it and strangled him, and if he was running it could get caught and choked.

Wolverine grimaced. No. People didn't have to worry about that. People didn't fight—not that he had seen yet. He'd heard raised voices at the base, and smelled males as they stood up to each other and stared each other down like wolves staring down before a fight . . . but he hadn't seen a fight once.

Hadn't seen one dead.

Even the meat Heather bought from the store was long dead when she bought it; when he brought home fresh kills, she paled at the sight of them.

Death was so removed from them. It was hard for Wolverine to imagine, when it was just a heartbeat away. For them.

Because they weren't freaks like him. They were like the hunters he'd run into the woods-those orange-vested men who had shot him. They'd lain still after his claws has cut them. Still as dead wolves in the snow.

He distantly remembered fights in a cage—cheers on the other side. Money and beer and hot cooked meat, and meeting the kid in that small bar. It was like remembering through a shadow—the faces and scents all blurry. So long ago. Had it been real? Men with rough curses and cold-chapped red noses over beards. A different kind of man.

But even they hadn't fought to kill—not before the ones who came for the kid, and even they had seemed hesitant to kill at first. Gambit, with his red eyes. He hadn't seen anyone else with eyes like that—not in the tv, at the base, or in the town.

No one else with claws, either. He'd popped them once when he was startled, and everyone had stared. Someone—a woman—had even screamed. Nearly given him a heart attack.

But the memory made his stomach turn and his lip want curl in a snarl. He'd have snarled at them all, had Heather not taken his arm.

Even when she smelled nervous, she was never afraid. And her eyes on him . . . they weren't the same as the others. She saw _him_, not . . .

Not what? A freak? She'd even gotten mad at him when he'd called himself the word.

Wolverine realized Mac had said something—a question, and a question for him. He backtracked, trying to remember what he said.

"Where?" he asked. Mac had mentioned going "out"—which was a fairly useless phrase on its own. It could mean going out of the room . . . though Wolverine had noticed it usually meant _outside the house_ . . .

"To meet a few buddies, maybe go a few rounds. Want to come?"

Wolverine flicked off the TV without looking at it and rose smoothly, grabbing his jacket from the floor on the way up. Heather had got him for him last week, after a heavy May rainstorm. It hadn't even been cold enough to turn the rain to snow, but she'd insisted.

"Just wear it for me," she had said, shivering in her own jacket. "You're making _me_ feel cold."

He pulled it on. It wasn't cold out, but it was just another something people wore. And Heather had given it to him.

The truck cabin was comfortable as they drove. Wolverine kept his eyes out the window, as usual—tracking where they were going, his mind processing what he saw in an endless buzz. Even after a month—30 days, with the moon growing bigger and smaller again—it didn't seem to stop. He wondered if it ever would.

It didn't take long for Wolverine to recognize the route—they were heading back to the base. He frowned at the window and glanced at Mac. He didn't mind the base, of course, but this wasn't normal. They woke before the sun—the digital clock that Heather had gotten him usually read 6:00 when she knocked softly on the door—and went to work by 7:30, returning home anywhere between 3:30 and as late as 6, depending on the day. They'd never gone back so soon after leaving—they'd been there only two hours earlier.

They parked, but instead of following the usual route that Wolverine was familiar with Mac led the way to a building Wolverine had never been in, but he'd seen men in uniforms come and go from frequently. He swiped his card, pushed open the door, and led the way towards the dull roar of the sound of a hundred voices, whooping and cheering and booing.

Wolverine tensed at the sound as they stepped in, and he looked down at a blue mat below, where two men were . . . fighting? But the crowd didn't smell right. This wasn't a fight to the death. This was . . .

"It's a sport, Wolverine. Like hockey. Nobody really gets hurt, but we're just here to sweat a little, bleed a little, beat out any grudges and have a little fun. It's sport."

Definitely not that baseball thing that he had seen on the tv earlier_._

Wolverine and Mac sat high near the back, though Mac was on his feet often and Wolverine stood beside him just to be able to see. Apparently he was _short_, though whenever he remembered it made his fists curl. He'd taken down bigger.

Two men stood on the mat at a time. It was like the bar so long ago, the cage—but different. Many of these men moved more lightly—less wildly. He found himself following the fights blow-by-blow. Calling who would win—frowning at the weaknesses in the fighters.

The pale man, with the thin scar through his short-buzzed black hair. Fast on his feet with quick strikes, but he telegraphed each move. Not much—a step, a shift of his weight . . . Wolverine could read him like a book. A larger man, with arms as thick as his legs—his left arm sunk slightly, leaving him slow protecting his left side, even though he ended up beating the smaller guy on the mat across from him.

And then Mac was pulling off his jacket, pushing through the crowd forward to cheers of the soldiers. Wolverine stiffened, not sure whether to follow. He strained to see, tried onto his tip-toes, then glowered at the backs of the men in front of him and climbed up on the bench to see over the men now standing in front of him.

Men patted his shoulders as Mac made his way towards the mat. He turned and grinned before climbing up, bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet to loosen up as he let a man on the side wrap his fists with tape..

Wolverine realized his fists were clenched, his shoulders stiff—ready to charge down, if Mac needed help. He forced his fingers to loosen, the muscles in his wrists to relax.

A sport. He wouldn't be hurt.

Like the cage fighting. Like hockey. No danger.

He balanced on his feet, though, ready to move if needed.

Mac wasn't the best—he telegraphed as bad as anyone, and his strikes lacked power, but he was fast. He managed four hits before a single hit brushed his shoulder, spinning him back. Wolverine tensed again, but Mac danced out of the way. He lasted a good minute before he ended up getting caught in a tussle with the bigger man he fought—obviously outmatched as he got caught in a headlock and tapped out. But he returned to his seat, grinning and sweating, with the men patting his back as he pushed his way back up to the high seat.

"No real limits," Mac grinned, even while he wiped blood from a split lip and looked up at him on the bench. "Department H recruits the best from the country and around the world. We have a dozens of different fighting styles. A hundred experts with the best training available."

Wolverine glanced at him, hands loosely in pockets, but instead of climbing down from where he stood he looked back to the mat.

The best? They were obviously better fighters than what he could remember from fighting in the cage—they had been pure muscle, with no finesse involved. There was even one or two here that he might qualify as good, and perhaps a bit of a challenge.

The man on the mat now was one of the better ones. He and his opponent were dancing across the floor, both feet and hands flashing. He jumped high, bringing his heel around in a round kick and catching the man he fought on the jaw. He went down like a tree with its roots torn out in a storm.

Wolverine had stepped down off the bench towards the mat before he even realized it, but when he did he finished taking off his jacket and tossed it back, followed by his plaid over shirt. Mac noticed.

"You think you can take them?" Mac asked. His tone was deceptively casual-his eyes watched him like a hawk. Wolverine lifted an eyebrow at him, and Mac smiled. "Okay. Just remember," he said. "It's just a sport. Don't hurt them when you take them down."

Wolverine nodded and stepped forward, cracking his neck.

"Got a name?" a man asked him at the edge of the mat, holding up tape for his fists. Wolverine held out his hands like he'd seen Mac do. He flinched slightly when the man first touched his hand, but made himself hold still.

"Wolverine," he said, and only after thought of _his_ name. Logan. But despite the look he received, he didn't correct himself.

The man nodded, and as the loser was helped off the mat Wolverine climbed up, twisting his neck to pop it as he eyed the man across from him.

_Swing to the right. While opponent blocks, lift left arm to block return strike, cutting across to catch his throat in a sideways blow. While he's off balance and choking, a hook around his right knee, drop him hard—elbow to the kidneys . . . no claws, no blood, and with his throat crushed there would be no sound. He was faster than these men—it would be over quickly._

But no. The kidneys would do too much damage—this was a game, that was all. But it wouldn't be much different to take him down without giving him more than a bruise.

And it might be just enough of a challenge.

Wolverine lunged forward, right fist raised.

* * *

Heather saw the edge of blood on Wolverine's white undershirt when he came home, along with a the scab of dried blood from a cut along his cheek he hadn't really noticed. He'd ended up fighting for a good two hours in there—though it was strange: time seemed to fly faster when he was fighting—and he felt tired, but somehow invigorated in a way he hadn't felt in a good month.

It was something he'd left in the woods. It felt _good_ to let go, to calculate, that struggle for survival—even if it was artificial without any real threat. It was something he was surprised to recognize he had missed.

But Heather's eyes caught the blood, the sweat-damp hair, and her scent turned sharp with worry. "Wolverine? What happened?" she asked.

"Eh, nothin'." At her look he wiped the blood from his face with his forearm. "Really—nuthin'."

"Just a little one-on-one at the gym with the boys, hon. Everything was in control."

"Mac—"

"What did you think of it, Wolvster?"

Wolverine glanced at him. "It was . . . fun." That word felt weird. Fun? But he'd heard the word—from Mac, from the books, from the television. Yes, it was fun.

Mac actually laughed. "There you have it."

Heather closed her mouth, pressing her lips together as she looked at Mac, and when he went to kiss her she pulled back. Wolverine watched without watching—wondering why Heather was upset.

"I'm glad you two are okay," Heather said. "You're sure you're alright, Wolvie?"

"I won," Wolverine said, wondering if that would make her worry smell go away.

It didn't, but it did make her smile.

"I was thinking," Heather announced suddenly, still smiling, though when she looked at Mac her the skin around her eyes tightened slightly. "Tomorrow marks a month since you've come to stay with us, Logan, and since I've got a meeting to go to tomorrow, I thought we could go out tonight."

"Exactly what I thought. He can't stay cooped up in here forever," Mac said, raising his eyebrow at Heather. "You ever been to a bar, Wolverine?"

Heather had already opened her mouth to protest, but to both their surprise, Wolverine nodded.

"Really?" Mac said, looking at him sideways.

Wolverine looked between them, clearly feeling that they were waiting for something more. "I like beer," he said plainly.

Heather hid a smile, remembering the multiple times she'd found beer bottles around the cabin, and James laughed—seeing Wolverine on their couch that first night at their home, a six pack all but drained around him.

"Yeah, I figured," Mac grinned, and looked at Heather. "They have killer burgers."

Heather sighed. "Fine." But the look she gave Mac as Wolverine pulled back on his plaid shirt said that she wasn't done with him.

Wolverine couldn't get the edge from Heather's scent out of his nose as he sat in the back seat and they drove to the bar. He looked out the window, watching as the sky darkened and the stars began to come out, and all the while unconsciously tracking the route to this new location.

The stars were different than they had been in the mountains. Dimmer—the black of the sky lighter. He wondered if people made it that way on purpose, to keep away from the feeling of them standing on the edge of the round earth. He frowned, suddenly wondering what kept them from just floating off into the blackness.

_Gravity_. It came first as a feeling—the memory of stumbling through the snow, of the gunshot to the head, sending him tumbling over a cliff. Down, down, down . . .

They pulled up to the bar. Wolverine didn't remember the first one he'd been to well, but this one _felt_ cleaner, and smelled it to. Though maybe he was just getting used to it. Heather said he could smell better than other people—_enhanced senses , _she said—but it was hard for him to see how oblivious they could be to the odors around them. At times it was like getting smacked in the face, even now.

He followed Heather and Mac to a side table, and scanned the bar before taking a seat with his back to the wall, so he could keep an eye on the door, another on the bar and keep half a mind outside the window. He didn't like having Heather with her back exposed, but he'd just have to watch for her.

They ordered something called _hamburgers, _which actually had no ham at all in it, but when Wolverine asked about it Heather blinked, grinned, and shrugged with a light laugh. The English language was strange.

It was good, if not as good as Heather's cooking. Grease dripped from the bun, and he worked to catch every drop. He was _hungry_, and spending time fighting—even in sport—had built up his appetite. He was licking the last of the juices from his fingers when Heather caught Mac's hand.

"We're going to go order some dessert." Wolverine made to stand, but Heather put a hand on his arm. "It's okay. We'll just be a minute. We need to talk." The way she said the last word was strange—heavier, and Mac grimaced slightly. It wasn't normal talking, and it didn't sound good.

Wolverine settled back down, watching them as they left. Mac had smelled . . . guilty? And Heather still had that edge of anger, though he didn't think it was at anything he'd done. But he hadn't seen Mac do anything wrong either.

At least, he didn't think he had.

He wasn't sure why they needed to "talk," but he settled back, nursing the last glass of a pitcher of beer that he'd ordered, looking around the bar.

A couple eyes glanced over him. He actually recognized a face or two—men from the base, from the fighting ring. One's expression was flat as he saw his eyes on him, but another—a man who was sporting a black eye from his elbow—nodded a short greeting at him across the bar. Another one ignored him completely, though Wolverine knew he'd seen him glance in his direction.

Wolverine glanced over the room, itching at the feeling of eyes on him. Most of them looked away at his gaze, but one stayed stead—a blond woman taller than Heather wearing a tanktop across the bar, her elbows forward on the counter. A square-jawed man was prattling on at her elbow, but she didn't seem to be paying attention.

She met his eyes easily and smiled, looking down for a moment before looking back up through her lashes. Wolverine felt suddenly very warm. He took a drink of his beer and loosened his collar.

She left the counter, eyes not leaving his, and she _sauntered_ up to him.

"So you're the Wolverine," the woman said, her dark eyes locked on his. "Some of the regs said you dominated the fights tonight. It seems that you're the worst-kept secret that little base down there has."

Wolverine didn't look away from her eyes—she had eyes like a wolf's, vying for position, and smelled like she was on the hunt. He figured he should say something, but suddenly he couldn't think of one damned word. Stupid. Couldn't think straight. Think of something clever. Something . . . . "Guess word gets around," he said in his soft voice, not lowering his eyes from hers.

Her lips curved in a smile and she slid down next to him. She leaned towards him, wrapping an arm through his and leaning close. "They say you're an animal."

Wolverine's eyes narrowed and he pulled back stiffly.

He was surprised when he felt warm fingers taking hold of the collar of his plaid shirt, pulling him forward again. He looked up into her eyes, bigger than life, her lips parted as she leaned towards him.

"I like it," she said, her voice nearly a purr as she leaned in.

Wolverine's heart was pounding, and he began to pull back—wondering what there was to be afraid of. But she moved forward, suddenly catching his lips with her own. He responded without thought, his hands that had been clenching into fists moving to her side as she drew close against him.

His heart pounded in his ears—her scent was so good, her warmth wonderful. The cheap perfume she wore meant nothing, and he breathed in, breathing in the beer in her breath, her sweat and adrenaline . . .

"Brooke Evans!"

The woman pulled back at the name—_her_ name. Wolverine was panting—why did she stop?—but the sight of Heather striding towards them, her face furious, helped clear the fuzz in his brain.

"Get away from him," Heather demanded, eyes narrowed behind her glasses. Wolverine tensed—upset as she had been before, he'd never smelled her like this: _furious._

Brooke slipped her arm back around him, and he froze—torn and tense. Heather was mad—mad at this woman. But she wasn't hurting him. She was good.

She was _good_.

"He's old enough to take care of himself, Dr. Hudson," the woman said calmly—but there was a cold edge to her velvet voice. "Besides, you already have one man, haven't you?"

She drew close, her breath hot on his cheek, a hand resting on his chest possessively. The touch was good, but he didn't know if he liked that. Still, he didn't care too much to worry about it right now.

"Wolverine," Heather said stiffly, breaking through the hot mists. "I need to speak to you."

Brooke leaned in, giving him a good look of her low neckline. "Stay with me, Wolvie," she said, looking up with him through thick eyelashes. "You can talk to her later."

"_Now_, Logan."

Heather's scent leaked through the lady's overwhelming scent and presence. She was furious, but even worse—there was the edge of something close to fear. Wolverine stood, pulling away from Brooke, feeling hot and strange—dizzy, but not in a bad way.

Heather caught his shoulder, grounding him, and started pulling him out. "Come on."

Logan glanced back. Brooke still sat at their table, and when she saw him watching she blew him a kiss. Wolverine swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

"_Wolverine_." He had stopped in his tracks, but now he looked down at Heather. "Come on."

He followed her out, dragging his feet. Heather dragged him across the parking lot and into the shadows of the moonlit trees before she let go of his shoulder. "You have to stay away from her," she said plainly.

Wolverine stared at her, then back at the light from the bar, licking his lips. He could still taste her—smell her—feel where she'd touched him.

"Why?" he asked, looking at Heather.

"She's a . . . !" she began sharply, but then bit her tongue. She took a deep breath and toned down her words. "She's a player, Wolverine. She doesn't care about you. She just wants to be able to claim she was able to take the _Wolverine _that everyone is talking about." The way she said the name—Wolverine—made him frown. She pushed on. "She tried the same thing with James after he first got here. Women like her—they only want one thing. And it's not right."

Logan shook his head, still looking away. He could still see her eyes, feel her heat.

He'd heard Heather say it. Heard Mac say it.

_Was that . . . ?_

"I love her," Wolverine tried, but with more of a question in his tone than a statement.

Heather's eyes widened, and she fumbled to push her glasses back up her nose as they slipped. "What . . . ? Wolvie, where would you get such an idea?"

He didn't answer.

"Oh, _Logan_." Heather breathed, between exasperated and pitying. "That's not how love works."

He looked up at her through his hair. The heat was dissipating into the night air—his mind was clearing of the woman, leaving only a new confusion at what had happened, and the fading taste of her on his lips.

"People like _that_ will try to make you think you're in love, but that's not it. Love—_real _love—it lasts forever. Would you want to be with Brooke Evans for the rest of your life, Wolvie?"

He gave her a confused look as he thought about it, but apparently came to no conclusion.

"Okay. I have _not_ been planning for this talk," Heather sighed, stopping to think. She looked up at the stars, and was silent for a long moment. "Here—I met Mac six years ago, Logan. We were going through graduate school—me in medicine, Mac in engineering. One of my friends introduced us." She smiled softly. "We went on a date." At Wolverine's expression, she explained. "A date is where two people go someplace together—usually dinner and something fun—to get to know each other to see if they might be interested. Interested in . . . well, finding out if they could spend the rest of their lives together," Heather tried. "Later, you date to get to know a person better, and to show that you like them—maybe even love them."

"It took us four years, Wolverine. Three years of getting to know each other, of spending time with each other. Of becoming _friends_."

She held up her hand, showing him a delicately set diamond ring. "Now we're married. That means that we are a family, now—we're even planning on having children. But that's what love is—I love Mac, because I know him so well, and I know that I want to be with him for the rest of my life. I want to have him with me when I'm happy, sad, mad, tired—all the time. You need to look for the one person that you can love, and save yourself for that. You let people like that Brooke come onto you like that and you'll only get hurt, no matter how good it might seem at the time."

Wolverine took her hand gently, holding up her fingers to let the diamond catch the moonlight. It looked like another star on her finger.

"Please, Logan," Heather said, hoping he was hearing. "Promise me that if she—or any other woman—tries that again, that you'll tell her you're not interested."

Wolverine looked up from the ring, catching her eyes. There was still confusion in his own depths—a tear between trust and physical urge—but trust won out. After a pause he nodded slowly.

Heather sighed. She pulled him forward into a hug. "You'll find someone for you, Wolvie," she said. "Just give yourself time, okay? You're trying to take a lot in at once."

Wolverine swallowed, feeling hollow, but he nodded against her shoulder before she pulled back.

"Okay," Heather said, letting out another long breath as if she had been holding it throughout their whole conversation. "Let's go back inside. But I swear, if that—" she cut off sharply, looking at Wolverine, and he was left wondering what she had been about to say.

It hadn't sounded very nice. One thing was for sure: Heather did not like this—What was her name?—Brooke Evans.

* * *

_Now:_

_Tryin' to keep it easy. Figure I'll let myself rest up for good—don't think I've been fully rested in months—if not longer—and even if I'm healed my healin' factor ain't up to 100%. If Emma's right, I'll go jump off a cliff a few times after everything settles down over here and we bring Storm back. That should bring the memories running._

_We got Crawler on board, too—ended up leadin' the team on a couple missions this last week. Couldn't make me stay behind, and I hate stayin' out of the front line, but at least there wasn't any major trouble._

_Ran out of ideas to look for Storm. Ain't no word from the sneaks, the news, Fury, the Scarlet Witch, or anyone else that usually stays on top of whispers of strange goings on. Ain't happy, but right now it looks like all we can do is wait._

_At least the head's feelin' better. Haven't zoned out for 4 days now, far's I can tell. Seems like whatever Frost knows, she's been right about that. Takin' it easy. Right._

_We'll see how long that lasts._

* * *

The phone rang from the hallway.

Wolverine didn't look up from the TV and his beer—phone calls were common enough, around here. Kids parents calling to talk, or business with the school and who-the-hell knew what else. He was enjoying not having to worry about that kind of stuff. Even Beast had seemed fairly willing to hand over the reins of business to Ms. Frost—even if he did triple-check everything she did at the end of each day. So far, nothing had gone amiss.

And he had to admit, his healing factor had appreciated the downtime. He could feel it in his bones—slowly going back to normal.

Almost. Well, for him, anyway.

Dreams were as bad as ever. But at least the daytime flashes had gone away.

And there were always the phantom pains from wounds long healed. Took a couple weeks for those to really go away, even if they were all in his head. Still, every once in a while he received a sharp stab of pain—a reminder that just a week earlier he'd been cut up like a tenderized slab of chicken.

_Rrrring . . ._

Footsteps, then someone picked up the phone. Jubilee. "Hello? Um . . . hello? What? No, no—she's not here. I don't know—okay, dude, hold on. Seriously, take a chill pill. I can't tell what you're saying—"

Logan had stood from the couch and moved to lean against the wall behind her, drinking from his beer.

"What is it?" Logan asked.

Jubilee jumped, almost dropping the phone. She recovered, covering the mouthpiece. "Okay, seriously? You need to make more noise when you're sneaking around and whatever."

She turned back to the phone. "Okay. Hold on one second," she said, then shoved the phone into Logan's hands. "You figure it out."

He took a swig of his beer, but accepted the phone. "This is Logan."

"Who?" The connection was bad—riddled with interference, but he could make out the word.

"Logan. Wolverine. Who is this?"

"Wolverine? Dammit, w—where is Storm?" the man on the line sounded breathless—his voice was rough, gasping.

He knew that voice. Not well, but it rang a bell, even shaken as it was. "Summers." Damn. Hated breaking news like Storm's disappearance, even to people like Summers the second. "What happened?"

"Oh God," Havok said. "I . . . I need Ororo. He—he took her—_d-dammit—"_

Great. He was going into shock. That would be really helpful if he passed out. "Breathe, kid. Breathe. Where are you?"

Alex Summers swallowed loudly. He exhaled shakily. Guy'd been crying? "S-south Africa, just south of a mining down named . . . named Sishen. When they were digging, they found—"

"Dug somethin' up?" Logan interrupted.

"What? No. No! Why am I talking to you? Where the hell is Storm?"

"Storm's gone," Logan said. "Gone MIA without a sign days ago. So you need some help, pal, you're gonna get it from me. Now what happened?" There was silence on the other end except for distant gasping—didn't sound good. Maybe a broken rib or two. Sounded out of it, too—maybe a good hit on the head.

Who the hell could beat up a mutant with energy blasts with a name like 'Havok'? And what had happened to his girlfriend—Lorna? Polaris. Whatever. The girl with green hair.

Logan was half-expecting being hung up on before Alex spoke again.

"It was Magneto," he said. He seemed to have gained some composure in the pause—his voice was stronger, more commanding. He almost sounded like Scott. "He—he came and took her. She didn't want to go, and we fought, but—we weren't ready."

Of course now would be when Magneto would decide to come back on the map.

Damn it.

"Okay, Wolverine, this is what I need you to do. Just—just get . . . uh, the blue German guy—Nightcrawler? Uh . . . get him, and . . . Rogue, the leech girl, and . . . find Beast. Have him get a team together. You think you can do that? With people who can hold their own against Magneto. Have them get on the Blackbird, and—is there someone that can fly her over here?" He sounded like he was trying to coax a feral dog to fetch a stick.

Logan was suddenly struck with a very strong urge to hang up the phone right then and there and pretend he hadn't heard a thing. Bastard. With luck he'd just bleed to death out there and no one would ever know.

"Shut the hell up," Logan said. "Just get in the shade. It gets in the 140s out there in the sun, and if you're bleedin' you need to keep yer liquids. You got water?"

"Y-yeah."

"Keep it close and keep hydrated. Stay awake and stay calm. With the Blackbird doin' her time we should be there in . . . an hour." Didn't know if the Bird's tech really did come from aliens or that Forge guy he heard Storm talking about once, but as long as it worked he didn't give a damn. "Got it?"

"Yeah. I'll be fine, just—just hurry."

"Keep your phone close."

He hung up. Jubilee popped from around the corner, chewing gum. He looked at her, unsurprised—he'd smelled her settle down to listen.

"Whazzup?" Jubilee asked.

"Suitin' up," he said. "But first—I need Rogue, Kitty, Frost, 'Crawler. See any of them, tell them we're gone in five." Colossus would want to come, and he would be useful against the Toad guy if that clown showed up again, or any leftover goons from Alcatraz Island—but organic steel wasn't the best thing to go up with against Magneto. Besides, it'd be best to leave some muscle behind, just in case.

And some brain. That's why Beast wasn't coming, even if he was healing.

"I want to come."

"No."

"Why the heck not?"

"'Cause this is gonna be an in-out thing, kid, and I don't want you on my ass the whole time."

"Why don't you just say it? You don't trust me."

"I need a team that'll do what needs to be done, no questions asked. You ain't got the experience or—sure, _trust_, ta come along." He grabbed his jacket from the closet. "Nothin' personal, kid. But this ain't a normal mission. This is Magneto we're talkin' about."

Jubilee scowled. "But you're bringing the White Queen?" she said. "Yeah, _she_ you can trust."

"No. But if she steps outta line she'll have me to answer to." He'd have few qualms in putting her down and doin' it fast. Kids, though . . . they just made a mess of things, and there wasn't ever an easy answer.

Jubilee's dark glare told him she'd got the message.

She went off to gather the people he'd asked for, and Wolverine cracked his neck and stretched out his arms.

He'd been waiting a long time for this. And this time, Magneto wasn't gonna be walking away from it.

TBC . . . .


	55. Reaching

I am in California after a 10 hour drive, ready to head out on a cruise tomorrow, and here I am with the promised post. Sorry it's a couple days late; being at teacher and having to deal with making lesson plans for subs for an entire _week_ is overwhelming to say the least.

Anyway, I'm off to bask in the sun. Enjoy the chapter and please remember to review. :)

* * *

Chapter 55: Reaching

* * *

_Now:_

The Blackbird settled onto the ground and Wolverine was down the ramp before it finished lowering. He stopped outside, breathing in the smell of dirt and dust and _heat_, his eyes adjusting to the blinding pale dirt. He pulled his hat down to shade his eyes.

Emma Frost stepped out behind him, shading her own eyes with a slender hand and looking across the flat earth towards the long house in front of them. It was small and simple looking—and one of the walls gaped as if a giant fist had blasted through it from the inside out. The two adjacent walls were all but gone, and the remaining section of the roof sagged as if ready to collapse. Logan strode forward, not waiting for the others.

He stepped over carefully over rubble, eyes sharp and as he breathed in the scents. His head fell under the shadow of the house, and he stuck his head in through the wall. Dust floated in broad beams in the streams of light that fell through gaps in the ceiling. The shade did little to help the heat.

"Summers?"

"Here." The voice was dry and pained, but slowly a man stood from where he had been leaning against one of the intact walls. He moved carefully—one arm not quite pressed across his ribs. Blood was dark on one side of his head, and he was pale. But he was standing, and Wolverine's glance took him and his injuries in and dismissed him, turning aside.

He'd be fine. Lotta pain and a bit of recovery time, but he'd live.

"Logan?" Rogue called from the outside.

"Yep," Logan replied. "Stinks of him, all right."

"Magneto?"

"Yeah. Ain't still here, though." He climbed out, and Kitty ducked past him, offering Alex Summers a shoulder to lean on as he limped through the rubble.

"Too bad," Rogue said, rubbing her knuckles. "Gotta admit ah've been lookin' forward to meetin' him again."

Wolverine stepped back into the light, shading his eyes. "Not catching scent of any of the other usual suspects, though."

"He was alone," Alex said, straightening. "Came in and just . . . took her. I didn't even have a chance to fight—he threw the fridge across the room and knocked me against the wall. I think . . . I think he's taken her to that island of his. Genosha."

Wolverine looked back at him. He stood slightly hunched, his arm still held protectively around himself.

His eyes had dilated normally when he stepped into the light, and while the blood on his face may have looked alarming, it was nothing to worry about. Head injuries always looked worse than they were. His limp was minor—no broken bones there, though he'd guess he had a couple cracked ribs.

"Looks like you got away clean. You're lucky he didn't smash you all the way through this wall, kid." He looked back at his team. "All right. We'll get you on the 'bird and out of here."

"Ah've got him, sugah," Rogue said, stepping forward. Alex's brow furrowed as she leaned down, wrapped an arm around his back and the other under his legs. He flailed slightly as she stood, lifting him easily as if he were no heavier than a babe. "Don't worry, ah got ya."

"Put me down," Alex insisted. Rogue shrugged and lowered him carefully to the ground, and he stared down at her for a second before looking back to Logan. "We're going after her."

"_We're _goin' after her," Logan replied. "You ain't in any kind of condition t' face Magneto."

"I'm going with you."

"Like hell you are."

"You think I'm going to let you leave me behind?"

"Heh. What're ya gonna do?" Wolverine's gaze took in his injuries, but more than that—his expression was as if he were looking at a upstart student.

"You have no right—"

"Don't know if you got the memo, bub, but _I'm _leadin' this circus, and _I'm _in charge of this caper."

"Alrigh', you two," Rogue interrupted. "This isn't getting us anywhere."

"You're right, ace," Logan said, sticking a cigar in his mouth and fixing Alex Summers with a flat stare. "Yer goin' back to the mansion."

"Dropping him off and returning would take another two hours, Logan. Genosha is just off the coast," Emma said.

Logan frowned at her, then turned and leveled his cigar at Summer Jr.'s chest.

"You stay in the plane. I ain't draggin' along a helpless injured kid—"

Logan was cut off—but not by another weak Summers' protest.

Alex had turned, raising his hands, and a blast louder than thunder shook the ground, the very _air, _like the shockwave from a grenade.

Across the field, the last remaining wall of the house exploded—sending shrapnel flying a good hundred feet in the air. Logan swore, ducking instinctively and shading his eyes from the blinding flash. When the dust and his vision cleared, he could see a deep trench, twenty yards across and streaming outward until it ran deep into the dirt. The wall wasn't even reduced to rubble—it was just gone. Down to the last brick, all turned to dust.

Logan took his hand away from holding his hat and glared at Havok, taking out his cigar and frowning at the dust covering its length.

"I'm coming," Havok said, his gaze deadly serious.

"Hell," Rogue drawled. "I ain't fightin' him."

Logan took off his hat and hit it against his knee, sending dust flying everywhere. "You stay smart—do what I say and don't try anything stupid or heroic, got it?" As if there was ever a difference between the two. Alex Summers nodded, and Logan put his hat back on. "Get on the plane, Summers."

* * *

_Then:_

_Funny. Those first few days felt so new, so real. I fed on the details like a starving man. But days passed into weeks, and they blended together._

_I owe everythin' t'Heather an' Mac. Two of them were like parents t'me. Brought me in when hell knows even a saint woulda turned me back to the wild—or maybe t'the government._

_I didn't go with Mac again to the fights—figure Heather talked him outta it. So he started snaggin' me at work, lettin' me work some energy out in the gyms. I remember the first day he came out with some kinda giant robot—clunky as hell, but fast and strong. He asked if I thought I could take it—no holds bared. I remember grinnin' at that. There wasn't much I missed about bein' with him and Heather, but after the time I sliced through their countertop when tryin' t'cut vegetables with my claws I figured I'd keep 'em sheathed in the house. And at the office. And outside. They started itchin' ta come out._

_So when he started pushin' me in the trainin' room, against the robots . . . I loved it. Helped me sleep better. Able ta rip free and wild—sweat and bleed a little t'keep feelin' alive._

_Started simple, but Mac had as much fun as I did scrappin' things together for me t'tear apart. Weeks passed an' I figure we had somethin' t'give our Danger Room a run for its money. Maybe not as shiny, but challenge enough._

* * *

_Knock, knock, knock. _

"Wolvie? Breakfast in ten."

Wolverine grunted awake, lifting his head from the book he'd fallen asleep on top of. He grimaced at the wrinkled page, trying to straighten it with a sleep-fumbling finger, and then stuck his bookmark in before setting it aside and sitting up.

He looked at the door, disgruntled, but Heather had already left. He could hear her moving around in the kitchen.

He unfolded himself from the bed, rubbing the back of his neck. He'd slept long enough to dream—a wild dream where he'd been running.

Running until they caught him, holding him down with a fork while a knife came down to cut him in two.

Heather and Mac had been chatting over him, completely oblivious to his screams.

At least he hadn't screamed out. That woke up Heather. Made her worry.

Wolverine grimaced, pulling on a shirt and went to join them in the kitchen.

Eggs and toast—a lighter breakfast, but one of Wolverine favorites. Kept him fuller than most meals. But Wolverine didn't move after Heather said grace, but just sat there, frowning at his silverware as if not really seeing them at all.

"Wolverine?" Heather didn't know if pulling him out of his thoughts was harmful or not, but he might sit there for hours if she didn't pull him out of it; he'd done it once, at the cabin. She'd watched him stand unmoving on the porch for a good three hours. It'd happened a couple times since, too.

He looked up, inhaling sharply as he focused on her. "Everything okay?"

He looked down at the silverware before snatching them off the checkered tablecloth. He stabbed into his food with determination. His knife screeched against the plate, and he eased up slightly. "Yeah."

Heather still watched him. "Nightmare?"

He shrugged.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked gently, not wanting to push too hard.

He blinked, his brow furrowing. He swallowed, looking away as he gave a short shake of his head.

Mac was making adjustments on his suit he wore in his lab when the security panel beeped and General Clarke stepped into the room. "You had something to show me?" the man asked without any small talk.

Mac pulled off his welding goggles and closed up the panel on the sleeve of the suit. "I thought you wouldn't be around until tomorrow, general."

"I had a space open in my schedule. You mentioned something about your Wolverine?"

"I did. Let me just slip out of this . . ." He gestured to his suit.

"Oh, no—don't let me take any more of your time. You have some tests set up in a few minutes, I believe?"

"Just some exercises. If you'll come over here." Mac put down his welder, stepping over to the tv on the counter off to the side. He reached for the control, pressing play on the tape. It was black and white, hazy, but Wolverine was clearly distinguishable on the pad in the middle of the room—if only by his hair and his broadly hunched shoulders—squaring off against his opponent.

As they watched, his opponent shot forward with his fist, and Wolverine caught his arm, using the man's momentum to twist him off balance and catch his neck in a deadlock. "As I mentioned, I had Wolverine come down and put some matches in with the men—mostly to just get him out and about. I got a hold of these tapes afterward, and had our boys analyze it." A second fight—the man coming in agily with a flip and a twisted kick. Wolverine stepped back, watching him warily, then reached out, catching his foot, returning blow-for-blow a blur of flying fists until his leg came out, swiping the man onto the mat—hard. "Half a dozen types of martial arts mixed in with who-knows-what. Whatever our soldiers came up with, Wolverine countered like he'd been born to this."

"Perhaps he was," General Clarke mused, his eyes not moving from the screen as Wolverine took down another opponent—a broad man a good two feet taller than him. "He beat them all?"

"Everyone that gave him a chance."

The general nodded, distracted still by the screen, but a frown now marred his lips. "Anyone out of a dozen mutants can take on even the best of trained soldiers without breaking a sweat, Hudson." He turned his dark eyes on him. "If he's to be your front man for your team, you're going to have to have more than this."

"We've been building up slowly," Mac said. "Why don't you come down and see him today? He'll be on his way to exercise room 5. Come see for yourself. I'll just change really quick—"

"Don't bother," the general said. You might as well show me in person your progress while we're at it. Unless you're not ready . . . ?"

"The suit's fine," Mac said, pulling on the suit gloves. "Just some kinks in the power cell, but a little more playing with the wiring should sort that out. We should have it ready for work in the field within a couple months."

Clarke nodded, his bald head shining beneath the lab lights. "Then let's go see what Wolverine is capable of."

* * *

General Clarke stood next to the window that peered down into the gleaming exercise room, his arms folded and his face expressionless. Mac flipped a few switches on the walls, adjusting the settings and setting up the sound and recording.

The door slid open, and Wolverine stepped into the doorway—not entering all the way until he'd looked around the whole room, no matter how many times he'd been in there before. The door slid shut behind him and he looked up to the control room.

"You ready down there?"

Wolverine turned his head, popping his neck and rolling his shoulders. "Yeah." He spoke louder than he usually did to make sure his voice carried to the room—but even then, it was soft for the distance.

"Last time a good level?"

Wolverine shrugged. "Gimme another one," he said.

Mac nodded, even though Wolverine couldn't see him, and turned a couple more switches. A panel slid open, letting four Frankensteinish robots slide into the room with surprising grace.

Wolverine faced off with them. The microphones picked up the distinct sound as his claws popped.

_SNIKT!_

Wolverine's shoulder's hunched and he moved forward like a tiger. He leaped sideways to dodge a hail of darting energy blasts from the crudely-formed cannon on the robots' shoulder.

"And these are?" Clarke asked, not looking away from the window and Wolverine below.

"Some basic 'bots I've thrown together. He's ripped most of them apart by now, but it doesn't take too long to piece them back together. We've got basic projectiles, short-range physical attacks, group attacks."

"And this?" General Clark tapped at a display on the control panel.

"Difficulty level. He's at 6 now."

"6?"

"Advanced soldier training maxes out at Level 4."

Clarke reached over, casually twisting the knob to 10. Down in the room, a sudden blast knocked Wolverine from the air mid-jump. He slammed against the wall, knocking a good dent in it. He leaped up from the ground, dodging another blast with a snarl.

"General, you can't—" Hudson's hand shot for the control, but the general caught his arm.

"What are you afraid of? Heather's reports claim he heals—you claim he can fight. You want me to have faith in your pet, Hudson, then let us see what he's capable of."

Hudson's jaw tightened. The general's arm strained against his suit—he could have pushed through easily with its added strength—but dark eyes met hazel and Mac pulled back, clenching his fists as he turned his eyes down below.

He'd seen Wolverine fight. He'd seen him take on man and metal—but he'd never seen anything close to this.

Blasts shook the walls. Wolverine darted in and out like a blur—flipping, kicking off walls and debris and twisting in with savage claws flashing. Mac watched, mesmerized—his own worry evaporated as Wolverine ripped into the armored robots.

A great slash of inhuman metal cleaved one of the machines from shoulder to the floor, sending it sparking into a heap on the floor, but before it had even settled Wolverine and leaped from its metal corpse. An energy blast hit the fallen 'bot the explosion was enough to shake the glass on the observation room.

Mac was jarred out of his awe the blast wave caught Wolverine in mid-air, spinning him off balance so an energy blast caught his side. Wolverine skid across the floor, leaving a bloodied skid-mark in his wake. A second blast sent him scrambling, one hand over his gut—blood dripping from his brow.

Mac reached for the panel as Wolverine narrowly avoided a head-on blast—even the glancing blow sending him skidding again. Claws flashed out, catching the floor and leaving deep gashes as he flipped to his feet—not even slowing. He ripped forward, leaping into the air with a howl of rage, ripping the head off the nearest 'bot.

Mac pulled back his hand from the controls.

Panels slid open on the walls of the room, exposing gun turrets that suddenly flashed. Wolverine ducked and dodged, ducking to slice off one of the last of the robot's guns. It fired wildly, but Wolverine took it in hand and his aim slid along the room even as he rolled through the rubble. The guns sparked and smoked as one by one they were demolished by his aim, but Wolverine turned to the last robot and threw the gun away—his claws at his side as he ran at it, tearing into it with a savagery that made Mac's mouth go dry.

Blades shot across the room—some hit him, though Mac wouldn't have been able to tell except for the cameras. They didn't slow him down a hair. Blood was flecked across his arms and shirt—but the wounds closed as soon as he got them.

"This isn't enough," Clarke said, and there was an odd note to his voice.

Mac couldn't help but laugh—a laugh of amazement. "What more do you want? We needed a weapon, general—and we've got one. He's taken everything we can throw at him."

"Not everything." The general's gaze turned away from the ruin in the room, settling on him expectantly.

Mac stared back for a moment before it hit him. He looked down at himself—the maple leafed costume bright in the room—and shook his head. "Not a chance. His claws can't penetrate the shielding."

"Then it will be a true test of his mettle. You think that robots and metal is the worst of what he will face in the field?"

"I can't. He trusts me. His psyche—"

"Must be tested as much as his physical prowess," the general finished. "I never wanted you in on this project, doctor," Clarke said idly, looking down at the room, his mask of almost unimpressed almost-boredom back in place. "I was . . . stuck with you—a naïve, dreaming, insubordinate civilian—and believe me when I say it will not go well for you if I report you for insubordination again. You will go down there, Dr. Hudson, and you will push him. And you will push him to prove that both he and your pet project are viable for any future consideration in the field. Do you understand?"

Mac's jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Clarke lifted an eyebrow, his tone changing.

"Come now, Dr. Hudson. Look at him. He's _loving _this. You won't be in any danger, and he will jump at the chance of a challenge. You saw him in the ring with our soldiers. You see him down there now. He _wants_ to be pushed."

Mac looked down at the room. Wolverine was tearing into the last, weakly twitching robot, his claws tearing in deep.

Mac nodded, pulling the hood of his suit over his head.

Mac made his way down to the entry door on the floor below and pressed in the code before stepping into the room. The door sealed behind him.

The last robot lay in a sparking heap. Fragments and dust scattered across the floor, and mounds of metal—some still creaking wearily as if trying to rise despite having fallen in dozens of pieces—lay about like a surreal scene from a battlefield.

Wolverine was crouched next to his last kill—his back towards him, his shoulders hunched around him. A large gash was healing across his shoulders—it vanished even as Mac watched, but he could see his shoulders shaking.

He couldn't do this.

"Wolverine?"

No response.

Mac swore. What had they done?

Mac took a careful step forward. Debris cracked under his boot. "Wolverine? It's Mac. Are you—"

Wolverine twisted, mid-leap before Mac had a chance to even register that he'd moved.

_SCCHTEEEER!_

The field around his suit flashed, blocking the blow that crossed his torso, but the force alone sent him wheeling back. He shouted, stumbling, but Wolverine bore down, slashing wildly—heedless that his strikes couldn't hit him, but deflected them centimeters away from his skin. Mac could feel the energy pushing back against him—the pressure tangible, terrifying, and somehow thrilling.

Mac raised an arm towards and down-turning set of claws, and they struck. He strained, holding Wolverine's blow from falling, and stared.

Wolverine's eyes were wild—near-black and dilated, mouth twisted in a snarl. He howled, striking down with all his force. Mac's arm flinched down under the assault—suit enhancing his strength or no.

Mac opened his mouth—to call his name, to try _something_ . . . but couldn't seem to find the words. Numb panic at the sight of him. Wolverine was death embodied, and suddenly he was glad his suit was there just to keep his knees from buckling.

He stumbled back—arms raised instinctively from the blows until his back hit the wall. Wolverine drove in with all his might—both fists pummeling towards his gut.

The energy of the suit held, and suddenly buckled.

Sparks flew, and pain shot from Mac's side.

He reacted—raising a hand and blasting a bar of energy. It hit Wolverine's shoulder—knocking him hard and sending him tumbling across the room and landing in a heap of still-sparking metal. Mac gasped, taking to the air and hovering—a hand over his side. Sweat dripped down his face.

Wolverine rose from the heap and shook himself before turning bared teeth towards Mac. He eyed him, pacing the floor—shoulders hunched and claws still bared, snarling under his breath.

Mac risked a glance down at his side and swore at the blood. His suit was a prototype, no more. The fact his shielding held up at all broke a dozen suppositions of science, and he had said it wasn't field ready—the power source was too weak, the circuits still glitching at times. He could feel the buzzing of the suit—the energy close to his skin—and he couldn't say if it was his imagination or not that he could almost feel it flickering.

He looked up at the windows of the observation booth, but he couldn't see to the other side—couldn't see Clarke. There was nothing keeping him from leaving right then, but he had the sudden realization that this truly was a test. For both of them.

"Wolverine!" he shouted. "Logan, snap out of it!" The man didn't seem to hear him—didn't seem to recognize his own name.

Suddenly grim, Mac eyed the doorway, and turned his body, whipping suddenly downward.

Wolverine reacted as if he had already known his move—Mac raised a hand, blasting energy towards him, but the feral man dodged and cut in, swiping towards the previous injury. Mac barely stopped him by catching his wrist, and blasted him in the face backwards.

Adrenaline pumped through his head—pain fueling near-panic. Wolverine landed on the ground, and Mac followed, keeping the energy on and facing it right on the man. Electricity coursed down his arms, his palms growing hot from the heat as Wolverine dug in claw in and dragged himself forward—skin beginning to smoke and the sleeve of his shirt smoldered. But Wolverine's claws ripped from the metal floor and he rolled out of the blast—breaking forward again, and Mac sent out a blast hard enough to crash him into the ceiling. But he twisted, slicing his claws along the lights and sending sparks flying as a light shattered, and he fell in control—landing hard enough so that his weight actually dented the floor beneath him.

Mac didn't let him straighten—but raised his fists and flew toward him, catching the man hard in the chin. He swooped around as Wolverine staggered, sending a blast that Wolverine managed to dodge, but Mac went in with two fists and caught his arm, slamming his fist into Wolverine's throat.

The suit increased his strength fourfold, but Wolverine caught his arm, and they rolled in the air—tumbling as Mac slammed him in the face, his gut, wherever he didn't get blocked. Wolverine struck back again and again—Mac felt his suit give as the claws glanced painfully across his shoulder, but blood splattered from Wolverine's face as he slammed into the feral man's gut, and Mac let him drop.

The man actually staggered to his feet again—still snarling, still watching him with blood staining his chin, half of his face swollen almost unrecognizably. Before Mac's eyes bruising faded, and a broken blood vessel in one of his eyes cleared up in seconds. But he stumbled as he tried towards him, pace already quickening.

Taking a deep breath, Mac pulled on the rest of the suit's energy and blasted him full-on. He whirled through the air wildly, slamming against the wall. Bricks shattered on the impact, tumbling to the floor.

The suit sighed around him as the energy failed, and Mac barely caught himself as gravity took hold and he dropped to the ground.

Nothing moved.

Mac gasped a breath—lowering his hands slowly, though at this point he barely had enough power to send a small animal running. Brick dust settled down over the ruin.

He spared a glance to his side again—hissing as he placed a hand over it. It was painful, but didn't feel deep. Sweat stung half a dozen other cuts where his field had failed, but none so deep or painful.

The rubble shifted.

Mac's head shot up as Wolverine rose slowly out of the dust—head hunched and chin low, swaying, with blood coating the side of his face—he could see metal gleaming beneath the torn skin on his forehead, even as the skin crawled back into place like a living thing itself. He swayed as he rose, and Mac darted a glance at the door, then bolted for it.

Wolverine stumbled after him as Mac slid to the doorway and pressed his hand against the access pad. He spun into the hallway and slammed his hand on to the pad—sealing it shut. Three long claws suddenly cut through the thick steel door as if it was butter, and Mac staggered back—raising his hands again—but the claws suddenly retracted and all went silent.

Mac whipped off his suit's mask—it was damp with sweat, the temperature-control turned off with most of the components, though to be honest it was less from heat. His free hand trembled as he pressed it to his side. He gritted his teeth.

Mac slammed the door open for the observation room. Clarke hadn't moved, but sat staring through the windows down at Wolverine. Mac opened his mouth, but the words he was going to say vanished as he looked down at Wolverine.

The feral stood inside the door, staring at it. For a second he didn't move, wavering on feet, and sank to the ground, fingers tangling in his hair like he wanted to rip it out.

The cameras caught him pulling in on himself—as if trying to sink into the floor. His hands shook, trembling as one pressed against the cold metal floor.

Mac swallowed. He was shaking too. Shock? Adrenaline?

Fear?

He didn't think he could ever forget those eyes.

Wolverine shifted below. Then slowly—ever so slowly—he lifted his head, looking dazed, and then stared in confusion at the blood on his hands.

"He—he's back," Mac said, leaning against the wall and keeping his hand against his side. He let his head fall back. "He's back."

Clarke stood—so abruptly that Mac blinked. He faced Mac squarely.

"Sir—"

"Whatever you need to keep the Wolverine around, you will have it. The added funds for the improved components you requested in your last report will be provided." Mac blinked at him—while Clarke was as stern as ever, he had expected a different reaction entirely. "I expect excellence, Hudson. Do not let me down." He eyed him. "Go get cleaned up. Can you take care of the Wolverine?"

Mac nodded numbly. He didn't know what Clarke would say if he responded otherwise.

The general left without any further courtesy. Mac turned back to the room, where Wolverine was looking around the ruins, one hand on his head as if to stave off a headache. Any sign of injury was long past, save for the streaks of blood. As if sensing him watching him, he turned his eyes up towards the windows.

"Mac?" It was spoken cautiously, with an edge of confusion—his voice that low rumble of his.

Mac didn't reach for the 'com controls, but stared, one hand still on his side. His trembling had stopped.

Wolverine looked down at his hands, and then his head jerked up again—he'd smelled his blood.

"Mac?" he asked again, a note of panic entering his voice.

"I'm here, Wolverine," Mac said. He no longer wondered how he'd earned the name. When Wolverine didn't reply, he added, "I'm okay."

"Mac," Wolverine repeated, relief clear in his voice, though his shoulders were still tense. "What happened?"

Mac looked down at him. Remembered the crazed look in Wolverine's eyes—the same wildness he'd seen that first time they'd met, when he'd come at him with eyes unseeing except for rage, with claws bared. ". . . You went berserk," he said at last.

Below, Wolverine flinched as if he'd been struck. He ran a hand through his hair, then looked down at it, grimacing at the blood. A dozen cameras caught his expression from a dozen angles.

". . . Don't tell Heather." The microphones barely caught the soft request over a sputter from a fallen robot.

Mac didn't answer.

They'd found their weapon. Now he only hoped they could find how to control it.

* * *

_Berserk. There ain't no other word for what I do, when the red haze comes down and I see nothin' but blood and pain and rage. Some clowns I've come across've made the mistake of thinkin' that it's a blind rage. I guess in a way that's what it is—but the berserker in me, it ain't stupid. It's hot and wild, but sharp and cruel. Thinkin' through the blood, but thinkin' hard and quick—harder than diamond, sharper than claws. An' that's what makes it all the more dangerous._

* * *

_Now:_

"All right. We want in and out, no fightin' unless we can't avoid it," Wolverine said, all business as he rose from the pilot seat and addressed his motley crew.

"You feelin' all right, hon?" Rogue asked with a slight smirk.

Logan raised an eyebrow at her, but didn't respond. "Frost, if you're half the telepath as Chuck was, you'll be our radio—you tune into everyone at once?" Emma nodded, looking cool as ever. "Good. If we run into Magneto we want to converge in minutes—take him down fast. Teams: 'Crawler, you're with Havok. Any trouble ya can't handle right-off and you 'port back until you get backup. Kitty, you're with me. See Magneto and phase us both outta there—don't want him gettin' a hold of my metal. Rogue, you're with Frosty. If it comes to a fight—get his helmet off if ya can. Keeps teeps out of his head for some reas—"

He cut off sharply, suddenly jerking his head around towards the back of the plane. "What the hell?" he murmured. He turned sharply and stalked out of the cockpit.

Havok blinked. "What just happened?"

"What is it, Logan?" Kitty asked, following him warily.

Logan didn't answer, but stopped in front of a storage locker and wrenched the door open.

Large green eyes stared up at him, gleaming as she looked up at him with pure attempted innocence.

"Hi, Mr. Logan!" Kylee said, all smiles.

Logan didn't answer at first, but just stood there, frozen. Kylee's grin faltered and her hair flattened as her eyes grew even wider.

Logan took a tight breath as if to speak, but nothing came. He couldn't seem to find words.

"Kylee!" Rogue broke the tense silence. Kylee's eyes broke away from Logan's and she looked to Rogue with an almost relieved expression until she saw the lack of mercy on the other mutant's face. "What are you doing here?"

Kylee shrunk back further. "Jus' wannid ta go wit' ya," she murmured, barely audible as she dropped her eyes and pulled in on herself.

"Dammit," Logan finally gritted between his teeth, half-growled.

"Language, Wolverine," Emma said, smelling irritated but appearing completely unruffled nonetheless. "There's only one solution, then. You'll have to stay with the girl." Logan's eyes snapped to her, and she waved her hand at his expression. "Think rationally. With your metal . . . _components_, you are by far the most vulnerable of any of us."

Logan bristled, his nose flaring. "Says the broad in heels and a stripper's outfit." Frost lifted an eyebrow.

"She is right, Logan," Nightcrawler spoke up.

Logan turned his back to them, looking out the cockpit window as he dragged both hands through his hair.

"This does not give you free reign," Kurt said to Emma, who was smirking slightly. "I'll be leader on the ground, followed by Rogue. Kitty vill be next in line, should something happen to me. You obey her like you vould Logan."

Emma lifted an eyebrow and looked down at Kitty, who crossed her arms and glared at her in response.

"Very well," she said, but her smugness was gone.

"All right, zen," Kurt continued. "Kitty, go with Rogue and Ms. Frost. It'll—"

_Rrrrumbble._

The cabin shook, and Kitty threw out a hand to steady herself against the wall as the lights flickered overhead, then blacked out. The roar of the engines sputtered, then went silent.

"I think our stealth plan just went bust," Rogue said in the sudden darkness.

TBC . . . .


	56. Deep Breath

Geez, life is impossible. But the chapters still come.

Thanks you thank you thank you for any reviews you have dropped, especially you few who take the time to drop massive, detailed reviews. They're what keep me writing. I looove to see what you guys call from what I have planned. :) Jeanniebird and silverthorne, your reviews especially are fantastic. And Jeanniebird, silverthorne wrote a review back about your comments on the last chapter. I love your discussions on Wolverine's character. He is the driving force for this story-his _character_-and I love to hear what you guys think of him as I write these little things of mine.

Anyway, I've gotta run. Barely took the time to drop this chap before running off again. Hopefully I'll have another chap for you in a couple of weeks. :)

* * *

Chapter 56: Deep Breath

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine wasn't shaking after he got out of the gym showers, but he felt like he should be. The ground under his feet felt unsteady, the light too bright, the scents too sharp, each sound like a scream—metal-on-metal. He could feel his claws hidden in his forearms; each one felt cold, his flesh too hot around them.

A young soldier was waiting outside when he stepped back into the hall. The man—boy, really—wiped his forehead and said Mac was getting cleaned up and said to meet him in his lab. Wolverine gave him a sideways glance and sidestepped him, walking forward. The man followed him him a couple steps back. Wolverine looked back with a frown.

"I . . was told to see you there," the soldier said. His gaze flitted to his eyes. He looked ready to add a title, but after floundering for a moment he just shut his mouth.

Wolverine frowned at him and turned around without a reply.

"Dr. Hudson's office is in the other direction." No answer. "Wolverine?" He said the name slowly—as if not sure if it was the right name to use—and Wolverine could feel his eyes on his back. Wolverine's lip twisted, but the kid couldn't see it.

"'Hungry," Wolverine grumbled, not looking back, though an itch was growing between his shoulder blades. A different kind of itching, anyway-his skin still felt like it was crawling, even if the visible healing was all but finished.

The soldier waited by the door of the cafeteria while Wolverine picked at his lunch alone in the corner facing the entrance. The food came in a very different quality than Heathers'. The thought of her made Wolverine's appetite disappear entirely.

He sat there until the food was cold and stirred to mush. He put his fork down and ducked into the kitchens when he saw the young soldier's eyes slide from him for a moment. He sniffed his way through the path that smelled of most traffic and came out in the hall. Nobody glanced at him, but he tread softly until he stopped against the wall in the corner beneath a camera—a rare blind spot for the cameras that he had noticed in passing, some days before.

He clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling hunted as the camera hummed above him.

Mac found him some time later—Wolverine didn't bother moving, and looked at him squarely as the man came around the corner. Sharp eyes noticed him favoring his side, his arm held a bit too stiffly next to him. Wolverine could smell the blood, the disinfectant, the sting of pain.

Not healing. But Mac wouldn't heal, not like him. If things had gone differently-and they could have, easily-Mac would be dead.

Dead. It seemed a strange word, here. In the wild it had been everywhere, but here it sounded off-like the sound of a rusted bell.

"I've been looking for you," Mac said, coming to stand next to him casually. Too casually, with how he shifted around his wounds.

Wolverine didn't look at him. "Could'a killed ya, Mac," he said softly, even for him.

"Sorry?"

"Could'a killed you," Wolverine repeated, his voice sharp.

"Oh. Well," Mac shrugged. "You didn't."

Wolverine raised his head and stared at him.

Mac shook his head—looking down the hall away from him. "I . . . it's as much my fault as yours. More."

"That's shit."

Mac lifted an eyebrow at him, but shook his head again, more vehemently. "The suit wasn't ready. _I _wasn't ready. Neither of us were. I pushed, and . . . I'm just glad it didn't turn out worse for both of us."

"'m always fine," Wolverine mumbled.

Mac made a noncommittal sound that wasn't quite agreement or disagreement, but somehow managed to sound encouraging. He reached out a hand, putting it on his shoulder. Wolverine resisted the urge to jerk back.

"I won't tell Heather."

Wolverine's eyes finally rose to meet his. "Yer injuries?"

"Accidents happen in the lab. I'll take care of it."

Wolverine breathed out a sigh, though he still felt as if his shoulders had been welded solid.

He shrugged off his hand, frowning at him. "I ain't fightin' you again," he said, deadly serious. "Never again. Can't . . . can't control it."

"It?"

Wolverine looked away, uncomfortable. He'd felt it every second of his memory, but only noticed it since he picked up the kid. He'd only become more aware after he'd met Heather, and then moved to the city. It paced in his mind, shying away from people. It made his claws itch.

"Somethin' inside a' me," he said at last. "Something . . . " He thought of a word; a word he'd learned since he'd picked up reading. An animal. Uncontrollable. "Somethin' wild."

Mac nodded slowly. "Heather has heard of a couple mutants they're categorizing as ferals. Animal traits, enhanced senses . . . You're not alone in this."

Wolverine's ears perked at that. "Others?" Others that had run in the woods? Others who couldn't remember? Others with . . .

He looked down at his hands, about to pop his claws, but a glance at Mac made him change his mind. He didn't think Mac meant that.

More freaks like him, only not. He'd been born a freak.

Mac nodded. "We can control this, Wolverine. I'm willing to help. You just have to agree to try."

Wolverine raised his eyes to glance at him dubiously. But Mac sounded—and smelled—so earnestly positive that it was hard to disagree. Besides, what else could he do?

Run into the woods-wasn't that the only option? Because it was that or this. Forward, or backwards? And Wolverine wondered if he _could_ go back, now. He didn't fit here, didn't fit there. Would he ever truly belong anywhere?

Mac was waiting for a reply.

Wolverine hunched his shoulders and nodded slowly.

What else was there to do?

* * *

Wolverine walked up slowly to the door, his shoulders hunched and his eyes wary. The door looked the same as any he'd passed on the base, though this one was tucked in the corner out of the way of things. He stopped, frowning at the name plaque.

Dr. Richens.

Mac hadn't told Heather. In fact, the man seemed determined to act as though nothing had happened, even to the point of straining. But once they'd reached base the next day and Heather had headed to her office, Mac had pointed him in to this office.

To visit a shrink.

A trauma psychologist specializing in PTSD was what Mac had called her, but a rose called by any other name was still a rose . . . or whatever.

He'd balked, and almost flat-out refused . . . but he had agreed to try, no matter how stupid this was.

Wolverine scratched a sideburn, still frowning at the door when it suddenly opened without him knocking.

He jumped despite himself, his claws going so far as to barely break his skin before he caught himself.

He hadn't realized he was so much on edge.

A short man—smaller even than Heather, and pale like a plant that didn't get enough sunlight—blinked up at him from the door. He was just shy of short—though that still left him half a head taller than Wolverine—with a hair too much flesh to be considered skinny, and a grey hair too much to be considered young. His smile was thin-lipped, but at least it wasn't faked.

Wolverine had the thought that he could kill him with nothing but a pinky finger. Harmless.

When he reached out her hand to shake his, though, his grip was strong. "Wolverine," he said. His voice was low and mellow. "Please come in."

Wolverine shrugged, but followed him in as he stepped back and held the door for him.

"Have a seat," Dr. Richens said, gesturing to the room. There was no shrink couch, and the desk was off to the side. A coffee table separated two leather couches in the center of the room—both looking comfortably worn.

He took the chair so he could face the door, slumping back and settling his hands on the arms. The shrink sat across from him, leaning forward to pour some hot liquid from a pot. "Tea? It's Oolong. I discovered it during some time abroad I spent in China—it's very relaxing."

The brownish-yellow tea smelled woody, with sweet earthy tones. But Wolverine didn't like the sound of anything that would _force_ him to relax, but the man looked at him expectantly. He nodded, but when he accepted the tea he just held it, undrinking, and making sure not to breathe too deeply of its aroma.

He was ready.

But the shrink didn't seem in any hurry. He sat back, sipping his own tea and looking out the window. After a couple minutes of waiting, Wolverine shifted his gaze from him to the window. He had a good view. Heather's and Mac's offices didn't have windows at all, and this opened up to the forest beyond the perimeter, rather than to the tarmac and boxish buildings on the other side of the complex. It was a grey day outside—not drizzling, but with a heaviness to the air that meant that it could start raining at any moment. The grass was growing high in the field, the trees already thick with green leaves as field gave way to forest. Blackberry bushes choked out the meadow beyond the fence.

There were blackberries in the field behind Heather's house. She said they would go picking in the summer. Said she used to stuff herself with them, when she was a child.

Wolverine wondered why he'd had to be lost in the wilderness during the winter. The rest of the year sounded like paradise.

He frowned.

Lost. He'd never thought of it like that. He hadn't been _lost_, really. He just hadn't had anywhere to go.

Just surviving.

He shifted in his seat, looking back over at the shrink. He was watching him over the rim of his cup. He hadn't even felt his eyes move to him.

"I never liked camping. It's wet, dirty, cold. Not my kind of fun."

His words made Wolverine blink. He hadn't expected them, nor the subject. He shrugged.

He remembered when Heather'd first explained camping to him. 'Roughing it,' she called it. Guess it made sense to want to get away from people, especially with so many living together. Hardly "roughing it," though, with fire and a tent and food and flashlights, and a car to travel in if need be.

He had nothing really to say, but the man didn't say anything else. Waiting for him.

He'd promised Mac he'd try. If the guy thought that talking about camping was going to help him, well . . . a promise was a promise.

Wolverine cleared his throat. It sounded loud in the small room. "I know I'm a freak," he said, but it was not harsh. "I know 'm all wrong. Ya can't tell me anythin' that I don't already know."

Dr. Richens raised his eyebrows. "Now what makes you think that?"

It was long ago—one of the first coherent thoughts he remembered. Standing outside the light of a campground, watching the distant fires flickering in the rings. Smelling the food, hearing the talk. Seeing a boy slip an arm around the shoulder of a girl next to him, and her nestling in close.

No. Even before that.

When he'd first recognized his reflection as a man and known that it was wrong. Oh, so wrong.

"Kid told me."

"Kid?"

Wolverine didn't clarify—he just nodded. He couldn't remember his name right now—just a grinning face, glowing red eyes, and a roguish smell that was _his_ smell. More important than words. And he remembered how he'd slipped out of the brace, that night. Swallowing the numbers the kid had written on the paper so they couldn't find them.

The kid had wanted to disappear, Wolverine knew that. This wasn't about the kid, so he wouldn't give them more than that.

He wondered if he'd made it to . . . Nawlins? Wherever that was. He hadn't been able to find it on a map, when he'd thought to look.

"What about before that, Wolverine? Or do you prefer Logan?"

Wolverine frowned sharply at the name. "Wolverine," he said, before even thinking. His name—Logan—had stopped hurting when Heather used it, or Mac—though that was more rare—but it was his name. _His._

"Why Wolverine?"

Wolverine squinted at him. It'd always been there. Always . . . gleaming in the sun on his bare chest, cold as metal and ice.

But he didn't want to talk about this. Didn't want to think about it. The memories were screaming black and blinding white and sharp and wild. _Fear._

He raised a hand to rub his chest, where he could almost still feel the metal dog tags, despite their long absence.

He'd promised Mac he'd try.

To keep the . . . what was the word? Berserk. To keep the berserker away. Nothing worse than that. Not if Heather was around. Not if . . .

He swallowed, fighting not to choke on his words as he forced himself to start at the beginning.

Heather cared more about what had happened, in the beginning. Details, faces, memories. The doc didn't care so much about the details. He wanted to talk about what it had been like, to wake up in the snow. How he'd _felt_, running with the wolves. Why had he reacted so strongly when he'd recognized himself as a man, and . . . did he still harbor some of the same feelings?

Of course he did. But hell—he couldn't answer all the questions. Not out loud, not with words. The first three sessions left him feeling drained and cold.

But he could still feel the animal pacing. If anything, the longer he pushed it down, the more restless it became. He worked twice as hard in Mac's workouts—working to exhaust himself, trying to push the himself so he had no energy to fight.

It might have worked, some. But he didn't notice a difference. Fighting was like living. Breathing. You stopped doing it when you were dead. Dr. Richins had been interested when he had said as much, and had paused to mark something down onto a pad of paper. Wolverine's skin crawled every time he did that. Made his stomach churn.

Three days into the sessions and he put his fist through the wall for the first time. He'd managed to calm down before hurting the man, though his response had been infuriating. The shrink'd praised him on redirecting his anger to keep from hurting anyone, and gone on to discuss different coping methods that could take the place of striking out.

Breathing deep. Counting to ten. Using words instead of actions. Wolverine had stalked out before he could get any farther. But the next day it was the same. And the next. And the next.

He tried.

But the breathing deep just made the human scents grow stronger in his mind—the counting let the rage build. And words? Words were too slow. Too clumsy. So much to say, with not enough room to say it. It bottled up inside him, but didn't make it disappear.

Wolverine looked forward to the time after work when he would be free to roam outside with Heather, or throw a ball around with Mac or watch hockey. Even the quiet times in Heather's office, when he could sit and read in the corner. She liked to talk too, but her questions were easier than the shrink's. Less prying, even if they had the same words. He told her about them—if not the reason for them—and she was encouraging without pushing.

And she talked back—but not like he was slow, thick, or a time bomb ready to go off like many people did around here. Around her tension left his shoulders and he felt like he could just _be_.

A week into the sessions, Wolverine settled back in the corner of Heather's office with his latest book across his crossed legs. Heather had been talking about the various mutations she'd come across in the last couple years—from energy blasts to physical mutations that made Wolverine stare despite himself—but she'd fallen silent as she turned back to her paperwork and the blinking cursor on the computer screen before her. Wolverine was watching her, practicing the breathing methods the shrink had been trying to help him with, though he didn't feel even a hint of anger at the moment. In his nose. Out his mouth.

It was calming, even with the stink of disinfectant in the air. He'd picked apart the scents in Heather's offices a hundred times before, and his mind felt as settled as he thought it could be. And Dr. Richens said to picture somewhere safe. Somewhere where he_ felt_ safe.

Images flashed before his eyes, but rather than fight them or grab at them, he let them pass by. His heart still quickened, twisting at glimpses of things his conscious mind couldn't make out. He breathed in. Breathed out.

_Safe_.

Not here. Heather's presence was enough make him like her office when she there, but with her gone the air seemed sharper, the lights brighter, the entire place cold and alien and _painful_. Even thinking about it, he could hear his heart quickening, and he fought to keep his breathing steady.

Heather's house slid into his mind. Someplace he didn't have to be wary of strangers, of soldiers. Where the scents were simple compared to here. Warmth, food. Safe.

Wolverine shifted in the corner, frowning to himself.

Physically safe. No harm would take him. No hurt. But there was still danger—he felt it. Never able to rest, like eyes on his back. Even with Heather, the pressure was there. Like walking on a razor's edge.

Was any place safe?

He looked down at his hands. They were clean and smelled of soap. No dirt beneath his fingernails, no blood. Not even a healing scratch or burn of cold, or the slightest mark of a fading scar. Comfortable. _Too_ comfortable.

He let his eyes slide shut. Remembering the sound of crickets in the crisp spring air. Remembering the bite of the cold on his toes—thawed in the spring to nothing more than a greeting nip. Remembered the smell of damp, rich earth and new green, and the scent of melting snow on the air from the higher peaks.

Alert. Alive. There was still danger there. The danger of predators, and of _them _following him. Hunting him.

His heart thudded in his ears, but he knew how to survive here. Knew how to live.

Perhaps it was as safe a place as there could be, for him.

The intercom beeped and General Clarke's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Wolverine started, eyes shooting open and hands immediately closing into fists.

"Dr. Hudson, can I see you in my office?"

"Me or my husband?" Heather asked. It was her office, but Mac was down often enough that the general could mean Mac just as soon as her.

"You."

"All right. I'll be down in five." She turned to Wolverine. "You good to sit tight for a few?" He nodded, and she stood, pulling her lab coat around her. "I shouldn't be long."

Wolverine nodded again. He didn't need to be watched. He was in control. The door closed behind her as she left, and he shut his eyes again, trying to find himself back into the woods.

But the closeness of the room seemed closer without Heather there. The air rubbed raw, without the scent of her. The white noise of nothing made the hair on his arms lift like a scream.

He rubbed his eyes, grimacing.

He waited for Heather to come back.

And waited.

Thirty minutes later Wolverine stood from his seat in the corner, glancing at the clock again before moving to the door. He opened it, sliding out into the hall and glancing at the camera on the ceiling before stepping forward at a steady pace. Soldiers passed with barely a glance at him, and he didn't bother with them either—simply following the scent he knew better than any other.

Heather. What was keeping her?

No one stopped him as he walked forward; his presence had become accepted, if not comfortable. A guest allowed to roam, but eyes still followed him—watched him.

His path took him up the stairs and to a side office. Clarke's. The door was shut tight, but Wolverine stood outside, pressing his ear against the thick wood door.

"—best for everyone involved," General Clarke was saying. His voice was low and muffled through the door, but Wolverine could hear it clear enough.

"I understand that, sir, but we have it under control."

Heather.

She sounded impatient. Defensive. Angry, even, though held in check. He had never smelled her angry-not really. He clenched his fists, ready to fight.

A sigh. The sound of papers shuffled in callused hands. "I don't think you understand what I mean, Dr. Hudson." The papers slid across the desk. Heather inhaled sharply—a soft choking sound.

"General, what—?"

"Fourteen men have been found dead in the Rockies the last number of months. Hunters, rangers, campers, skiers. All of them killed by something we've never seen before, and all within the range that we predict Wolverine may have been in before you found him. Something with long claws, and you can see clear enough that it was no bear. And then there's this." There was a long pause. Wolverine leaned forward, his palm flat against the wall. "Teeth marks. _Human _teeth marks."

Wolverine jerked back to stare at the wooden door, his hair prickling on the back of his neck.

"No," Heather's voice was soft enough that Wolverine had to strain to hear. Then louder. "No. Wolverine—_Logan_—would not—"

"How do you know, Doctor?" Clarke said, his voice only colder next to Heather's. "You've had him for a handful of weeks, but your own report has discussed your concerns of how dangerous he is, and wild. Barely human when you found him, as I remember you saying. Starving in the wilderness, why wouldn't he turn against his own?"

"He wouldn't," Heather said. "Besides, there's Remy—he _protected_ him." But her voice shook. "He would have . . . said something," she finished.

"You're assuming he would remember such a thing at all," the general said. "With his memory as it is, who can say for sure?"

There was a long silence. "I've talked to the director," Clarke continued, not harshly. "We have a team of doctors who would be able to take him in and give him the best possible care, and with the security that we lack to take care of him if he got out of control again. For him, as much as for your safety, Heather." His voice strained slightly, as if he were trying to sound sympathetic.

Wolverine felt a chill growing in his bones as the silence stretched on. Hollow.

His heart pounding in his skull. Thudding.

Silence, stretching the space between heartbeats into a lifetime.

"No," Heather said, firm once again. "Prove it was him, general, and then you can take him in with the law on your side. Until then, he stays with me." Heather's footsteps turned to the door, and Wolverine tensed to bolt, but the next words made both him and Heather's footsteps freeze.

"He almost killed James last week," Clarke said, all business now. "What? Didn't he tell you? They were sparring in the gym and Wolverine lost control—went completely berserk, and would have killed him if he hadn't gotten away. Don't believe me? Ask your husband."

Wolverine felt like the floor had dropped out beneath him. He slipped away from the door, walking quickly around the corner, and feeling numb. His hands were slick with sweat, his mouth dry.

He leaned against the wall around the corner, dry-washing his face. Whatever had Clarke shown her. He'd said . . . fourteen men—dead? He hadn't killed them. He _hadn't._

. . . had he?

He hunched there, waiting until he heard the door open, and Heather's footsteps fade down the hallway in the other direction. General Clarke left a few minutes later, and Wolverine slipped forward quickly, darting around the corner and rushing down the hall. The door closed slowly, and he managed to slip his fingers to catch it before it shut fully. He pushed open the door, eying the interior.

Heather's scent was strong—tinted with bitter fear and doubt, prickly with fury and sharp with defensiveness. The general's scent was the strongest, with a dozen dozen others passing over him, and a sweet smoky smell that Wolverine couldn't identify—there was no fireplace in the office, big as it was. Wolverine rubbed his nose.

The folder still lay on the general's desk, and Wolverine moved forward and flipped it open. He glanced at the map on the top, marked with red x's, and then laid it aside. His eyes didn't flicker as he spread out the pictures beneath it

The bodies were in various stages of decay—one nothing but a skeleton and scraps of cloth, half-buried in melting snow—its skull marred by three slashes down its face. Two more were marked found fifty miles apart—one with its guts spilled out on snow, wide eyes frozen solid with the cold. Another was torn clean in half—an arm completely missing. The next had been picked clean entirely, with a close-up shot of teeth marks that had torn flesh right off the face.

Wolverine turned over the next picture, and froze.

Two men lay in mud, bright orange vests marking them as hunters. They were dead a week at least when the picture was taken—the sunken cheeks and bloated flesh was telling enough. One of the faces was ruined beyond any chance at recognition. The other's shirt was ripped open—the sunken chest bare.

No teeth marks. But in the back of his mind buzzed a memory. A memory of a gunshot, a scream, that rage . . . the memory of blood on his hands, and a reflection in the water of a river, and the horror of a revelation as he stared at the men he'd killed.

_He was a man._

Logan pulled back from the picture, knocking into the chair behind him and almost stumbling before steadying himself on the back of the chair.

He gritted his teeth, steeling himself to look at the picture again.

No teeth marks. None human, at least—the bodies looked whole save for their original wounds, which was surprising enough.

He flipped through the rest of the pictures with a feverish intensity. Flesh with deep gouges and claw marks too deep and sharp for any beast's. Flesh torn off with teeth too dull to be a scavenger's. Most were too stripped for identification—only tattered skeletons in the snow.

The last one made his mouth go dry again.

One body—alone, this time. The face was intact enough to see the features, and the cold of deep winter had frozen it—preserved it where warmth would have left it rotted. He recognized it vaguely, with a memory of metal traps and black cold and food stolen from the two men in the mountains, with words he could almost understand. A quick glance at the map showed the location, along with the scattered dots of where the other bodies had been found.

He wondered if they ever found the second trapper.

Wolverine replaced the photos with a cold numbness and slipped the map marked with small red X's into his pocket. He stepped out of the room and closed the door firmly behind him.

He found himself outside Heather's office without being entirely sure how he had gotten there. His hands were cold, but his palms were damp. His stomach rolled.

He readied himself to enter. _I didn't do it. I didn't kill those people._ But that wasn't quite right, was it?

_I didn't kill_ most _of those people?_

That'd go off well.

And they were right—what if he just couldn't remember? What if he had killed all those people? What if he had . . . _eaten_ them all? He'd seen the trappers, after all. Perhaps he'd been the last one to see them alive.

That fear in Heather's scent . . . the _disgust_ at the thought . . .

It made his own stomach roll.

He inhaled, breathing in the scent of her from her office. Her hair, her clothes . . . even the slight scent of her sweat smelled wonderful.

He frowned, turning around and stepping down the hall with purpose. He drew his collar up as he moving quickly.

Away from her. Away from here.

Away.

* * *

_Now:_

Logan whipped around, grabbing hold of a seat as the plane began dipping.

"Kurt! Get the kid out of here!"

Kurt darted forward, grabbing Kylee and vanishing in a blast of sulfur—and then everything went to hell.

The Blackbird dove, and Kitty screamed, barely catching hold of a handle on the wall before the floor dropped beneath her feet. Frost fell and slammed against the seats hard enough to break bone, but she straightened and looked towards Wolverine—her skin suddenly transparent, and her hair as clear as glass. Emotionless, blank eyes looked at him; she'd turned into a flawless ice sculpture, but a thousand times stronger; ice would have shattered into a million pieces with that impact.

Logan ignored her for now. He grabbed onto another handhold and dragged himself upward towards the hatch. He reached it, pushing against it, but the pressure from the cabin was too strong.

"Logan!" Rogue shouted. She half-flew, half-crawled across the cabin, taking hold of the handle and wrenching it forward and out. A vacuum of air snagged at them, and Logan let it sweep him out into the sky.

Seconds later, they were all airborne, free-falling behind the Blackbird.

Logan twisted around, throwing out his arms to control his fall as he looked around him. Frost was still in her icy form, Kitty looked just plain strange: falling, but somehow her hair still hung around her face—hardly touched by the wind as she phased her way down through the air.

Where were Rogue and Summers?

He glanced down at the plane speeding below them. Still falling, but as he watched the tip lifted, leveling out before a figure darted from under the nose—Rogue, with Havok held against her with one arm.

Rogue twisted towards him, reaching out, but Logan pointed to Kitty. Rogue nodded, swooping over and grabbing hold of Kitty as she went solid and grabbed a hold of her neck.

He glanced at Frost one more time—she was swan diving, arms thrown back and eyes closed as her transparent hair flowed—a liquid solid, somehow—behind her. She could have been asleep.

Whatever was going on with her, she probably wasn't even going to feel the hit.

Lucky girl.

Logan gritted his teeth, bracing himself as the water rushed forward, the air making his eyes stream.

He didn't remember hitting the water.

* * *

_It was dark—pitch black, and cold. Where was he? Where were his fingers, his hands, his feet? He could barely feel them—distant, throbbing. He tried to move his fingers to make sure they were there, but there was no response. They sat there—curled but unmoving, a part of him . . . no, someone else's body. Distant._

_Throbbing, frozen pain._

_Cold. Metal. He could feel the cold leaking through his wrists, his ankles. Burning ice dug between his temples—into his eyes—stuck in his flesh._

_Pain. Pain enough that he wanted to scream—but his vocal chords were dead, his panic muffled behind a thick fog of cotton stuffing his mouth, his ears, his brain._

_He willed his eyes to open—but his eyelids were gone. He was gone. Someone had stolen his body, leaving his consciousness floating in an unresponsive, cold mass._

_Trapped._

_Water licked at his toes. It was warm—like blood—and crawled up his legs, around his chest—constricting him. He tried to gasp reflexively as it covered his mouth, his nose—he couldn't even hold his breath as he felt the bitter liquid rush down his throat, choking his lungs with fire and acid._

_Lights flashed behind his eyelids. Unnoticed by him amidst the agony, his throat constricted—his hand flinched, his muscles quivered—reflexively fighting to respond as the ice needles drilled down to his bone and turned to fire._

_Water lapped over his head, and chains pulled him down, dragging at his bones, tightening around his chest as he sank deeper into the depths—_

* * *

Logan gasped—breathing in a mouthful of bitter seawater reflexively.

He sputtered—losing the last of his air as he flailed wildly, his brain panicked between reality and memory.

His eyes shot open—burning at the saltwater—but he twisted and saw the dimming light and began swimming towards it.

_Flickering_. Flickering so distant, like warped reflections of a reflection of a reflection.

The water pulled at him—fingers fighting to pull him down. His bones dragged—he felt a million pounds from head to toe, and bubbles streamed upward past him. The light seemed farther away than ever.

Sinking. No matter how much he tried, just going deeper.

His fingers dragged through the water—was it really just water? His eyes burned like fire as his vision grew darker and darker.

He strained, his lungs seizing. His diaphragm fought to expand—to inhale.

He'd always figured drowning was the worst way to die. No matter how much a person tried to fight it, or even just take it, there was a corner of the mind that will gasp in—no matter that it's water. There's no reasoning, no bravery. Just panic.

He fought the urge to gasp, his vision going darker.

_Sinking, just sinking . . . _

Something grabbed his arm, yanking him upwards.

His automatic response was to fight. He jerked away—but the grip was unyielding, and he was already speeding towards the surface. His head broke the surface and he gagged—coughing out a mouthful of water and gasping for air as he twisted to clutch Rogue's arm as the water's surface dropped beneath them.

"Cool it, hairy," Rogue said, slowing a hair. His stomach clenched and he choked again—spewing out another mouthful of bitter water. Her hands held him up, his feet dangling over the waves—weird to say the least, but he wasn't complaining. "Ah got ya, sugah."

Logan looked up at her, clinging to her arm, blinking. Eyes burned from the seawater—lungs still felt half-full of liquid, and burned like he'd inhaled acid rather than water.

"'bout time," Logan gasped at last, wiping his arm across his mouth. He coughed again. "Where're—the others?"

"Safe. An' dry, which is more than ah can say for the two'a us," she said. "You okay?"

"Hate water," Logan muttered, looking forward as they flew—Genosha's shores in clear view. His hair clung mournfully to his face, and he shook his head, pushing it back from his eyes. His hand shook. He blamed the lack of oxygen.

"Didn't use t'bother you so much," Rogue said, and Logan knew she wasn't thinking about anything recent.

Wolverine didn't shudder. "Didn't use ta have a hundred pounds a' adamantium pullin' me down," he said, looking down at the waves. Still felt like he was sinking.

"Fair 'nuff," Rogue said. They fell silent for a moment. "Lucky I found you at all."

Logan didn't reply to that, though it was difficult to swallow before he spoke again. "Magneto knows we're comin'."

"He's not stupid enough t'think we're dead," Rogue affirmed, somehow making even that grudging admission sound like an insult.

Rogue angled down to the beach—low rocks where the waves buffeted against the unforgiving edges, and the rest of the X-Men stood, looking around warily. Frost stood pristinely—flesh once again. While her pale clothes were dripping, her hair was dry without a strand out of place.

Rogue landed and he stepped away as soon as his feet touched the ground. The ground still felt like it was shifting with the waves, but he ignored that, pulling off his soaked coat and dropping it behind him. He eyed Frost.

"Another power, eh? Turn into somethin'?"

"Diamond," Frost said, voice hard as the word she spoke. "Secondary mutation. Triggered by an old . . . friend of mine." Though by her tone, whoever had done that to her could hardly be called a friend.

Saved by '_luck_,' huh? He'd bet a dollar a dime this secondary mutation had been what had kept her alive while her school fell down around her, her students dying around her as it burned. He grimaced, not wanting to think about that too much.

"Woulda been nice to know," was all Logan said, and he left it at that.

Emma Frost just looked at him, unapologetic.

He took in all of them. Besides Rogue, Frost, and himself, everyone else was dry. Kitty's hair had gone curly and wild, but she was dry; Havok was paler than ever, but still determined—his eyes drawn towards the tall metal spires before them. Kurt was worrying his lip with a slightly too-sharp canine, and Kylee was hiding behind him, holding onto his tail as she peeked towards him.

Logan gritted his teeth, catching her eyes for a mere second before looking away. "We stick to plan," he said.

"With you staying with the girl?"

"Ain't safe," Logan shook his head. "If we were on the 'bird we could fly out enough, but on shore everyone's vulnerable. Kitty, you're sticking with the furball. We're gonna go pay our old friend a visit."

"That is one big beach-house," Rogue commented, looking upwards. Above them rose a giant . . . fortress, would be the best word. Pure, seamless metal stretched towards the sky without break save for some distant windows far up in the spiking towers, and metal arcs and bridges curved through the air as if defying gravity. It all glinted coldly in the red light of the sun as it began to dip beneath the waves. Cold black and frozen blue clashed with red dark as blood. "Very homey."

Logan pushed his sopping hair from his face and leveled a stare at Kitty. "You keep down, keep phased. Got it?"

Kitty nodded, but didn't look happy about it.

"Radios are dead," Alex muttered, tapping against his earpiece.

"Not surprised," Rogue drawled, taking hers off and flicking it across the shore. "Never liked those things anyway."

"Got us online, Frost?"

_Yes, sir, __corporal, sir__,_ her voice sounded dry in his mind. Logan's eyes narrowed at her.

_Stay out of my business._

_Wouldn't dream of doing otherwise. _Her mind's voice was as dry as he was wet.

"All right," Logan said grimly. "Let's do this."

TBC . . . .


	57. Into the Dark

The pacing in this chapter just feels off to me. Too slow at parts, and then jumping too quickly at others. I think it's because the "then" part is a lot more "tell" than I usually go for, but there you have it. I've put in my time trying to smooth it out (and it has gotten much better, believe it or not), but darn it if I can't find the energy to go through and rewrite it all like the Perfectionist in me wants to. So the Lazy part of me met with my Cautious Editor side, who wanted me to keep this chapter in my pocket for another couple of days, but since I'm going out of town *again* (This time for SDCC (!)) next week then I figured I needed to get this out here before I took off, lest the break between chapters turns into months . . . again.

I realize my posting schedule isn't the best, so good on you if you're sticking with me. I realized the other day that this chapter was begun more than five years ago. Five *years*. Yeah, if you've been here since the beginning or anywhere close to it, you've got my respect. If you've just stumbled upon this recently, consider how lucky you are. As for myself, I was just scanning over some of the earlier chapters and was blown away by what this has turned into. Can you believe that the first plan for this story was to be a short piece—that is, a couple chapters, a few thousand words at most? It cracks me right up.

But anyway, the 5 year working period might be part of the problem with this chap. I've had a good part of the next few chapters written for a good 3+ years, and so I'm chomping at the bit a bit to it, and this is a bit of a transition chapter rather than an action-packed one. :) So here you go.

And as usual, if you logged on then check your inbox to see if I replied to your review. I didn't have time to respond to everyone's, but if you asked a question then I tried to take the time to answer it

Enjoy the chapter! I hope you're all having a great summer!

* * *

Chapter 57: Into the Dark

* * *

_Then_:

He stole a motorcycle.

It was surprisingly easy. He snagged a helmet and bike from the corner of the hangar and slid out the side door without anyone saying a word to him—or anyone appearing to see him at all. Apparently these men were more wary of people coming in than those that were already inside. Wolverine sliced his way through the exterior's fence and then climbed on. He didn't even have to think twice before he'd hot-wired the bike and hit the road.

The ride was a long one, but for some reason it didn't bother him. It felt . . . comfortable—the wind sweeping in his hair, the road grinding beneath the wheels of the bike as he roared forward.

He'd done this before. Sometime, somewhere, even if he couldn't remember it.

He was getting good at recognizing that feeling.

He stopped for gas that night—paying with a twenty that Heather had given him at their first trip to the store after an explanation of how money worked—and grabbed a cheap burger that made his stomach churn with the thick grease and too much salt. He choked it down anyway, then drove another hour from the po-dunk town and pulled the bike into the trees far enough to be out of sight of the road to sleep. He curled up beneath a tree, the stars winking in the sky overhead, and was asleep within minutes.

Wolverine woke up to the sound swallows whistled spiraling tunes in the morning air. He opened his eyes to see the sun turning the leaves over him to a transparent green.

He stiffened, momentarily disoriented at the clashing of his senses and memories. Wilderness and civilization. He could smell the trees, the air, the dirt. He could smell the grease of motor and tar of road—and the fading scent of laundry detergent and soap and man. He blinked, sitting up and rubbing the imprints of pine needles from his cheek as he squinted at the light of the sun.

He was close to a road, and the stolen motorcycle sat propped up in the dirt not far from him. The smell of man was _his—_or on him, at least. The jacket he wore was an old one of Mac's, and his scent had soaked in through the leather, and the laundry soap on his shirt was the kind Heather used on all their laundry. It felt strange not to have his bare feet pressing into the cool earth beneath him, to feel the bark on his bare back as he leaned back against the tree behind him.

He didn't move at first as he listened to the sound of the birds and sorted out the scents of the forest. The musky scent of a fox that had peeked in at him in the middle of the night—he'd opened his eyes from sleep as it'd drawn close, but it had ducked away and he'd settled back to sleep and almost forgotten the incident. The dirt, damp from the morning's dew, and somehow cleaner than anything he'd smelled in weeks. And despite the fact that the tree roots were definitely not as comfortable as a bed, he felt more rested than he had in months.

Wolverine rose, rubbing the last of the quickly fading soreness from his neck. He pushed his bike back to the road and gunned the engine on.

Small towns gave way to woods and mountains as he drove, sparsely broken by a lone dirt road leading to a cabin nestled between the trees. The air smelled like melting snow and pines—the wind leading down from the mountains and the clouds passing over his brow as he rode. He breathed in deep as he rode, the air like cold water after a day in the sun. He ignored the growling in his stomach. His body'd become used to eating regularly—three times a day, whether he was hungry or not. But here he had no food and no money, and it wasn't time to hunt yet.

He drove on, stopping occasionally to check the map he'd taken from Clarke's office—bold X's marking the places where they'd found the bodies.

The mountains jutted up into the sky, green with snow tucked into its folds and sides. Snow melt formed dozens of rivers down the jagged cliffs as he drove by, the wind catching at his hair.

The bike sputtered to a stop shortly after noon. Wolverine climbed off, frowned at that empty mark on the gas meter, and then dragged it off the road again. He hid it in brush beneath the boughs of a drooping, giant pine, and covered it with extra brush to hide the gleam of the metal. He stood back, glancing briefly at his work before he continued on foot.

It was different, walking in the woods in boots, and the collared shirt caught at the soft wind. He frowned, pulling his jacket and shirt off and wrapping them around his waist as the sun bore down on him, warming his skin. He kept the boots on, though—it was nice to be able to walk through a patch of thorns without having to stop on the other side to pick them out of his feet on the other side.

He went up first—up and in, farther away from the smell of the road and the sound of the cars passing by intermittently on the road winding through the narrowing canyons below. The air grew cleaner and colder, the air clearer.

He trotted along, eyes alert, nose flaring, though for what exactly he didn't know. After he paused for a drink at a stream he pulled out Clarke's map and frowned at it.

It was a topical map, and Wolverine turned it without thinking to match with the mountains around him, a finger tracing the killings and the dates penciled next to each location.

The kills followed a rough pattern—aimless wandering, but heading east across the mountains. The most recent was two months past, and dozens of kilometers northwest. It'd take him days to get there on foot. To track the killer, it could take much longer.

Wolverine folded the paper up and stuck it in his jacket.

It'd take as long as it needed to.

That night Wolverine went to sleep on an empty stomach and slept fitfully—waking up cold in the night to pull his shirt and jacket back on and shiver against the ground as he cursed to himself. Winter had passed in the city, but here in the mountains the air still had a nip of frost in the night.

There was no ice, though—no jagged pain from his fingers and toes as his healing factor fought frostbite, bleeding and healing in a stand-off battle. This wasn't cold. This was nothing.

Only a handful of weeks, and he'd already grown soft.

He woke up before the sun, stomach growling, and headed forward—always forward, deeper into the mountains.

His stomach gnawed in his gut as the day went on, but besides mountain songbirds and a pair of bald eagles overhead he didn't see anything living before midday. He found some small green berries and thought to try them—Heather had said wild berries were delicious—but they were bitter enough to make his tongue curl, and he spat them out. He slowed his pace, stepping quietly in hopes of having some prey cross his path without having to get off track to hunt.

A rabbit scampered between the thick-growing pines, too fast for him to give chase to, and he had a sudden wish for one of Mac's guns.

The thought brought him up short. He looked down at his hands—at his fists he'd made without thinking at the sight of the rabbit. They didn't look like his hands anymore. Still clean, even with the day's build up of grime—he'd washed them in the river when he stopped for a drink without thinking twice about it. Half-covered in the just-too-long sleeves of his jacket, they could have been anyone's hands. Any man's hands.

Giving in to his stomach's growling at last, Wolverine stripped off his shirts, pulled off his boots, and started after the rabbit.

He followed its scent, hounding it until he sneaked up on it as it quivered in a bramble patch. Its fear filled his senses, the sound of its tiny pattering heart drawing him.

Wolverine leaped forward. The rabbit squealed, bounding into the air. Wolverine's feet skidded in the brambles as he turned sharply with it, and the rabbit's squeal was cut off sharply as he speared it on his claws, blood spilling over his hand. He grinned, pulling it off his claws before retracting them. He held the rabbit between his teeth as he cut his way out of the brambles, and dropped down to sit in the dirt, ripping a mouthful of skin and fur in his teeth and spitting it away to get to the meat.

A second bite got him there. There were still bits of fur, but the meat was hot and fresh—blood hot, almost still living. He growled with pleasure, ripping in with his teeth.

He tore out another bite and froze mid-swallow, choking off his growls as he blinked down at the rabbit in his hands.

He saw himself in his mind's eye then—sitting in the dirt, blood flecked across his bare chest, dripping down his chin, soaking his hands. The rabbit's fur was soft and warm against his palms, its wide eyes still shining. He remembered Heather's expression of horror when she'd seen the rabbits he and Mac had shot, before he'd skinned them and gutted them. Remembered Mac's pale face when he'd stepped on the bones he'd left beside the couch, that first night at their house. Remembered the smell of Mac's blood on his claws, dripping between his fingers as he came to himself.

Wolverine scrambled to his feet, breathing hard. The rabbit dropped to the dirt.

He was losing it. The shrink had said the animal was a part of him, and his progress and ability to learn and adapt to living with people again had been surprisingly quick. But he'd come back to the mountains and had almost all about them.

He took a deep breath. The scent of the blood and wilderness reached out to him, and a part of him reached back, but he forced himself back, panting.

_Logan_. His name. A man's name.

He wouldn't lose it again. He _wouldn't_.

_What if he did? Just woke up and forgot everything he'd learned?_

He'd almost forgotten everything. Forgotten _himself._

Logan.

He bent down slowly and took the rabbit in hand, then stood and made his way back to a stream he'd seen a way back. He washed his hands, face, and chest of blood, then popped his claws and rinsed them too—Heather had said it wasn't clean to use his claws on food, but he was sure cleaning them first was the next best thing, even if he didn't have any soap. He skinned the rabbit and left the guts there—never mind that he would have eaten as much in colder days past. Mac said it made people sick, and he knew from experience that the intestines and stomach tasted vile. He washed it carefully, cleaning it of traces of blood and dirt and fur before nodding to himself and taking a careful bite.

He was breaking one of the first rules Mac had told him. _Don't need to eat it raw._ No—the kid had taught him that first. He could wash it, and cook it. But he didn't need to eat it cooked—he'd been just fine before. It was like Heather had said to him, now and again. He was a mutant. His healing—"healing factor," she called it—made it so he didn't get sick where other people would. Normal people.

_Mutant_.

He swallowed a bite of meat—it was still warm inside, where the river hadn't been able to chill it—and looked down at his hands again. Blood from the fresh meat had leaked onto his hands again, despite his attempt to wash it away.

He growled softly, but cut himself off again, ripping off a strip from the rabbit's thighbone before tossing it away and going to rinse his hands again. He focused on breathing deeply, like he was taught to. Had to keep the animal away—had to keep it in control. His hands ached in the cold of the river as he scrubbed them, and then looked back at where he'd set his meal in the dirt next to the stream. Blood seeped between the small pebbles. He could smell it—still warm. Blood and meat, mixed with dirt. Made his stomach growl again.

He picked it up with uncertain hands. Maybe he should have cooked it after all.

He rinsed it again and held it as he went back to his clothes. He pulled back on the boots and his shirt, and finally gave in to the scent and finished eating the rabbit. His stomach settled comfortably, but he frowned as he threw away the last bone and wiped his hands on his pants, even as he craved to bite into the bones to get at the marrow inside.

People didn't do that either. Heather had told him that, one night after a turkey dinner. The flavor she'd seasoned the meat with had soaked into the bone, and he'd cracked into it without waiting to finish chewing his last bite of meat. Heather had jumped half a foot at the sound.

She'd tried explaining. It was some weeks back, so he didn't remember it exactly; sometimes her enthusiasm for science cluttered her explanations. Something about how the marrow was full of energy, but people didn't eat it. He'd asked why, but he didn't remember getting a satisfactory answer. People just didn't do it that way.

It seemed like there were a lot of things that people didn't do just because they didn't.

He hiked on, still frowning. He'd awoken at ease, but now he looked at the trees with a new wariness of their danger. A danger far beyond physical security, though the wilderness had never been a place to let his guard down. It was the danger of the animal inside of him, who wanted to run and keep running—to hunt and kill and feed and sleep and forget and stop _thinking_.

He shook his head and pulled out the map, the scents of people and ink and paper on it jarring against the forest. He moved forward, his steps more halting, but he knew who he was.

Wolverine only slept an hour or two that night before waking up from a nightmare. He came to himself and shivered on the forest floor, seeing shadows of knives and smelling blood from where he'd popped his claws in his terror. No one came running at his screams, though the forest seemed to hold its breath as it watched him, waiting in darkness. He thought longingly of distracting books as he rolled onto his back, but sleep was beyond him, and he frowned up at a cloudy night sky.

As the sky began to lighten he gave up on rest and climbed to his feet, moving forward. Could feel his metal bones as he walked, dragging him down. The sun grew hot, but he kept even his jacket on, sweating beneath it as the day progressed.

He tried hunting that evening when the growling in his stomach grew painful, but ended up going to sleep hungry again. He was jerked out of a sweating nightmare he couldn't remember by big wet drops of rain falling between the trees. He pulled up against the shelter of the pines, his hair plastering against his face, and freezing rain seeping down his neck and chilling him through.

He wondered how Heather was doing, and pictured her sleeping in her warm bed. The air in the house would still smell faintly of the night's supper, be it stew or steaks or casserole or chicken soaked in gravy, hot and steaming. He could almost see himself there at the table, with Mac's cheerful voice in his ears. It'd be hard to eat slowly, but he'd do it for Heather. She always seemed to sense when he was trying for her, and he loved when she smiled.

He wondered if they were looking for him.

Wolverine gave up on sleep as he began to shiver, standing and deciding to cover some distance as long as he was awake.

He walked through the rest of the night. The rain let up as the day progressed, but it was a grey day, sprinkling intermittently. The clouds settled down around the mountains and pressed against him. His boots slipped on mud and he growled as he popped his claws to cut through the dense undergrowth.

It was going to be another hungry day.

Wolverine didn't bother stopping to rest. Animals had gone into hiding from the rain, and he didn't see so much as a rat. Moving kept him warm, and pushed him forward.

The clouds broke around midnight that night, as he was slogging around a lake. He stopped for a drink, trying to stop the pain in his stomach—but he knew it didn't work that way. He'd eaten just a single rabbit in three days. Enough to start wearing even on him.

The stars glinted between the breaking clouds overhead and scintillated on the lake's surface, and a whispering breeze shifted the grasses underfoot and rippled against the water. He shivered, drawing his soaked jacket closer, but then went still as a scent made his hair rise on end.

He turned his head, eyes sharp in the darkness, and he moved forward.

He caught it again—faint in the mud and rain-scrubbed air. It was a tongue-curling scent that sent a growl rumbling in his chest that he didn't have a mind to bother stopping as his lips drew back from his teeth in a snarl. Red seeped into his vision, his fists clenching as he looked forward.

A scent of death walking—of something vile and unnatural, setting his claws itching and drawing his lips back from his teeth.

Hunger and weariness momentarily forgotten, he began to follow.

The hunt was on.

Exhaustion pulled him to sleep around dawn, but he woke up alert, pulling off his boots and tying them onto his belt to let them dry as he walked. As the day warmed he drew off his shirt and jacket, letting it dry over his arm as he followed the hair-raising smell.

Wolverine was finally able to kill a deer that afternoon. He gorged himself until he felt sick, then dragged himself into the shade beneath a tree and flopped down to sleep in food-indulged exhaustion. He hadn't bothered washing the meat, though he had cut it into more manageable pieces, and eaten with his hands rather than just his teeth. The jacket he pulled around himself smelled as filthy as he did—matted with dirt and splattered with mud and traces of blood, and almost dry.

_Logan_, he thought to himself as he drifted into a comfortable sleep, the taste of blood still strong in his mouth, still clinging beneath his fingernails.

* * *

_Now:_

"You're mad at me," Kylee pouted.

"No I'm not," Kitty replied unconvincingly, peering over the rocks to glare at the rising metal spires above them. The sun was all but set, now, and the sky darkening. The towers loomed like monstrous shadows, the reflections of the stars like the sight of light on smooth ice.

Kitty shivered at the cooler breeze coming down the cliffs; she hoped it didn't get too cold. She hoped they'd hurry.

Kylee tried to pull away, but Kitty's grip tightened on her wrist. "Hold still."

"Let me go."

"Logan said for me to look out for you. Now I can't phase you unless I'm touching you, so hold still."

Kylee's bottom lip stuck out, and she glowered at the waves.

_Long corridor here, _she heard Logan think through Emma. It felt distant, somehow—Kitty had to focus to catch it all. Was it distance, or just that Emma Frost wasn't as strong a telepath as the professor? _All metal._

_No doors_, Rogue said. _Probably melts his way right through._

Alex's thoughts. _How do we get—? _He cut off.

_. . . _

_That'll work._

_No doors, make doors, _Logan replied. Kitty could imagine him resheathing his claws after having sliced right through the metal wall, pushing into the next room.

_You gettin' anything, short-stuff?_

_Nothin'._

_Ve teleported into a room—just storage. Are we sure anyvone is even here?_

_Hold on, _Emma Frost spoke up. _Something—_if brain waves could crackle static, Kitty could have sworn she was breaking up—_not right._

_Logan, you're bleedin'!_

—_not heali—_

_Dammi—_

. . . .

_Logan? _Kitty thought towards them. _Emma? Guys?_

. . . .

Silence.

_Anyone?_

"Wha's wrong?" Kylee said.

"Shh!"

_HELLO!_

Kitty wasn't an expert with telepathy. She wouldn't have felt comfortable enough to really ever ask the professor about it, and though Jean had been like an older sister to her, it wasn't really something you just talked about.

Still, she figured that she was doing the mental equivalent of shouting through a megaphone.

No reply. Nothing.

Kitty straightened, her grip still firm on Kylee's wrist as the little girl resisted her pull.

"Wolvie said to stay here," Kylee spoke up, planting her feet.

"I know," Kitty said. She looked down at the girl. Her eyes were wide, her fur-like hair more shadowed red than orange in the shadows of twilight. She looked younger than ever. Kitty knelt down in front of her, letting go of her arm and putting her hands on her shoulder. "Listen, Kylee. Logan might be in trouble. We're going to go in and help him, okay?"

Big green eyes glowed up at her, pupils wide. "Wolvie says it's not safe," she whispered.

_Now's the time she chooses to listen to him_, Kitty thought dryly.

"We can't get back home without him. Now, can you be brave?"

Kylee lifted an arm, wiping her nose. She nodded, frowning.

Kitty took hold of her hand. "Now listen—just keep holding my hand, okay? As long as you're holding my hand, nothing can hurt you. Even if it gets really scary, just don't let go, okay?"

Her small hand curled more tightly around Kitty's, her small claws sharp, but not too painful.

"Okay," she said. "We're going to go through a wall. Don't worry—it's not going to hurt. I just need you to hold your breath."

Kylee quivered. "I'm scared."

Kitty reached down, picking her right up and holding her close. "Just close your eyes if you need to." She readied herself, taking a breath and holding it before she stepped forward through the metal wall she had phased the X-Men through just a half an hour before and headed into the cold metal expanse.

* * *

Inside Magneto's metal fortress, Wolverine tilted his head and knocked his palm against his ear as if trying to clear it of water.

"You all right?" Havok asked.

"Think hittin' the water blasted out parta my hearin'," Logan muttered, scowling deeply as he glared down the hallway. He rubbed his nose. "Stick close."

_Long corridor here,_ he thought through Emma. It felt kinda stupid—like talking to the air like that. _All metal. _Was anyone even hearing him?

"No doors," Rogue said, and it echoed strangely through telepathy at the same time. "Probably melts his way right through."

"How do we get—?" Havok began.

_SNIKT. _Unbreakable claws sliced through the thick metal like it was butter. The wall was a good four inches thick, but Wolverine cut rough rectangle and kicked it through. It hit the metal floor with a deafening clang.

"No doors, make doors," Logan said, retracting his claws and ducking through.

"You gettin' anything, short-stuff?"Rogue asked, stepping through behind him.

"Nothin'."

Wolverine stepped through the tear in the wall, sheathing his claws as he looked around.

_Ve teleported up into a room—third floor from what I can tell—just storage. Are we sure anyvone is even here? _He heard Nightcrawler through the bond, clearer somehow. 'Cause he'd split off with Frost?

_They're here_, Logan though with a confidence he didn't completely feel. The scents he had picked up were faint, and growing fainter. The room he stood in now might as well have never been walked in at all.

"What do you hear?" Summers whispered, coming up beside him where he'd stopped.

"Squat. That's the problem." He reached up his hand to rub his nose, but then stopped, staring at the blood flowing freely from the back of his hand. "Shit."

_Hold on, _Emma Frost spoke up suddenly. _Somethi_—_not right._

"Logan, you're bleedin'!"

"Not healin'." Logan turned sharply. "Everyone, get out!"

_Frost? Dammit. Frost!_

No answer. Wolverine swore again.

"Mags must've figured a way to turn off our powers—or at least disable them for a while," he said, moving forward again.

"How?"

"Guy found a way t'make mutants. This must be more'a the same. Be more helpful in a country of mutants t'be able to say who gets to carry a stick and who doesn't."

Wolverine pressed his fingers on the back of a hand to try and slow the flow of blood. But it was slowing slightly—he could feel the slow, crawling agony of healing. Just slower. A hundred times slower.

Not enough.

Logan grimaced and tore a length of his plaid overshirt, tying it tightly around his knuckles without missing a step.

"Head back," he said, his voice gone cold. "Get Kitty and the kid and get out of here."

"What about you?"

Logan's stare was hard. "I still got a fightin' chance here, kid. Was doin' this kinda stuff long before anybody knew about mutants."

Logan finished tying off his second hand and bent his fingers stiffly. It felt like his arm had been split from elbow to knuckle—the flesh sliced clean through with only a thin layer of skin keeping the thick gashes from spilling out blood like a gusher. He gritted his teeth against the pain, blood already dripping through the fabric of the makeshift bandages onto the flawless metal floor.

_Powerless_. If someone ripped out his throat or shot him in the gut, he'd die. It was a thrilling thought—a strange rush to the head—and somehow, not frightening at all. His mind was suddenly sharp and alert: he was walking on the edge of a blade.

Yet somehow it changed nothing at all. He had his claws, his skills, his knowledge. The thought of a mission without powers seemed almost familiar.

_Before_, he thought. World War II, Vietnam. Before the claws. He must've had to keep it quiet—keep it low. He knew this. It _was_ familiar.

"Power check. Havok?" Alex held up his hands. There was a sputtering glow, a blast of heat in the air, then nothing. "Rogue?"

She shook her head after trying to step into the air, wobbling a bit, and then dropping back to the floor. "Whatever Ms. Marvel's powers are, whatever Magneto's got is enough to put a damper on it." She saw his expression and shook her head. "Ya better think again if you're thinking of sendin' us back. I still have enough Carol in mah head to know my way around without powers, and it's jus' as dangerous goin' back as forward."

Havok just looked at him, his face a flat refusal.

Wolverine grimaced. "Just keep yer eyes peeled."

* * *

TBC...

The next chapter, "Pain Has an Element of Blank," should be up either next weekend or the weekend after, depending on if I find time during comic-con to post. :) Your homework assignment is to read the Emily Dickinson poem by the same name. :D


	58. Pain has an Element of Blank

Well, it's a little later than a few weekends ago , which is when this chapter was supposed to be up. But oh well; it isn't months on end of a break, so that's relatively not too bad . . . I guess . . . :D

Especially since this chapter focuses on fight scene after fight scene . . . something that I consider a weak point of mine, and something that is *hard* to do. Hopefully it worked out okay.

School starts this next week, so hopefully I'll find myself in a good schedule to find some time to write. Teaching is exhausting, but somehow the more I have to do the easier it is to find time to do the things I want to do. If that makes sense.

New people: welcome! And please review . . . especially since now has the option of sorting by reviews. :) I love to hear what you think!

As for people who did review: thank you. :) If it was your first time reviewing, be aware that I sometimes respond to reviews, so check your inbox to see if I did.

Thanks for reading! I hope you're still enjoying this (very long) journey.

Now onward we go. If you forgot to do your homework from last chapter, the poem you were supposed to read is pasted below. ;)

* * *

Pain has an element of blank;  
It cannot recollect  
When it began, or if there were  
A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself,  
Its infinite realms contain  
Its past, enlightened to perceive  
New periods of pain.

-Emily Dickinson

* * *

_A bit of the next couple chapters is adapted from Wolverine v2 #130_

* * *

Chapter 58: Pain Has an Element of Blank

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine slept until midnight, and then pulled his shoes on to continue the chase, re-energized.

He passed a bear with a cub as the sun crested the mountains on his fourth day on the mountains—he'd begun keeping track by cutting a dent into a small block of wood he'd chopped from a fallen tree. The sow huffed at him, but he bared his teeth and growled and she pulled back, retreating into the trees. He moved on, passing a moose grazing on summer foliage as his path turned downwards to follow a canyon's curves.

He jogged until the sun was at its zenith. The sound of a river caught his ear and he made his way to it, drinking deep of the clear water before catching sight of a glint of silver beneath the water. He grinned, remembering to pull his shirt off before wading into the river. He extended his claws slowly and quietly. The water was ice-cold, biting deep, making him feel alive. His hair stood on end from the cold, but he ignored it, enjoying the feeling of the sun on his back as he stood unmoving over the water—waiting. A half an hour later he made a catch—stabbing a salmon clean through. He took it to the bank, but stopped as he took a couple steps out of the water, looking down at his feet.

He'd forgotten to take his boots off. Water squelched around his toes, cold and loud and uncomfortable. Wolverine's lip twisted in a frown and he dropped into the dirt to pull them off, followed by his now-worn socks.

He had bit deep into the fish's side when he caught the sound—footsteps, downwind from him. He hunched his shoulders, half-torn between running and sitting still, old instincts to flee mankind surfacing as the wind shifted and he caught their scent. But he forced himself to remain, despite his heart pounding in his chest.

"Hey! Hey, you!"

Wolverine lifted his head, spitting out a fish bone as he eyed the guy's uniform—light tan with a patch marking him a Park Ranger—and let himself relax a hair. Not military.

Military? Would that matter? He'd spent the last few weeks with Heather at the base, and the uniforms had made him wary, but the military hadn't been the ones behind what happened to him. Not normal military, at least. Normal people didn't do that to other people. Heather said so.

Normal people didn't hurt each other. Didn't kill each other. Only terrible people could have done what was done to him. Sick people. Masked monsters from his dreams, watching him as he drowned in his own blood.

Monsters. That's what Heather had called them, but she didn't like to think about them—he could see it in her eyes.

But whoever they were, they were as human as she was, and that chilled Wolverine to his bones.

Wolverine shook his head to clear the dark thoughts and frowned at the men, who looked anything but a threat.

The ranger had a rookie partner at his side—a kid with an acne problem and what looked like what must be a perpetual sunburn. Red hair peeked out from beneath his flat-brimmed hat. He would have smelled them a mile off, had the wind been southerly. A rifle sat easy in the big one's hands—Wolverine frowned at it, but didn't let his gaze dwell. They were alone—even if they tried something, there was no way they could be a threat. Not to him.

"What?" Logan snapped, defiantly not moving from where he sat in the dirt, barefoot and shirtless. He felt more irritated than he should be at the interruption to his solitude. A threat or not, they didn't belong here.

_Did he?_

"What the hell are you doing out here?" the older man asked.

"Eatin'." His voice was rougher than he remembered—a few days without talking and it felt strange to do so. He deliberately took another bite of his raw fish, ignoring the younger one's stare. The fish didn't taste like Heather's—but it didn't hit his taste buds like a kick in the mouth from all the spices covering of the taste of the fish itself. It tasted real, fresh, clean; he'd missed it. "Got a problem?"

That was rude, if not overly so. He wouldn't ever have talked to Heather like that, and he'd gotten used to ignoring people he didn't want to talk to; most people at the base didn't bother trying to strike up a conversation anyway. It struck him that if he wanted to chase these guys off he wouldn't even have to bare his claws. A few choice words began floating into his mind, and he blinked, half-startled by them. But he realized that they could do just as well, if need be.

He chewed his fish thoughtfully on that, storing it away for later.

The wind shifted—he smelled a hint of revulsion, disgust from the strangers. "Get your shirt on and grab your gear. We had a bear attack just a couple miles from here yesterday—killed the man and dragged off his wife and kid. We've got a bunch of guys combing the woods—you wanna be packin' it in until we've got this monster."

Wolverine spat out a bone, looking up at him again. He chose his words carefully, remembering what he'd learned. "Bear attack?"

"Big one. Worst we've seen up here in years. Now get a move on. We'll walk you back to the ranger station and you can catch a ride out from there."

He took one more bite before tossing the rest of the fish onto the bank; there were plenty of scavengers and predators that would strip the rest of it bare before the sun went down. He stood, wiping his hands on his pants. He reached for his discarded clothes from where he'd hung them in a nearby tree.

"Where?"

The men exchanged glances. Wolverine frowned, impatient.

"I can help," he rumbled softly, hating how his voice sounded halting. It had been getting better with Mac and Heather, but he still hated talking to strangers. "If ya wanna find the—the kid and lady, ya want as much help as you can get. An' I know the woods."

The red head kid gave him a sideways look. "You a tracker?"

Wolverine tilted his head. It sounded like it meant something more than the word itself, but he thought he got the idea. He nodded, but the men's expressions didn't change. Words. Why did men care so much for words when they weren't needed? "Ya could say that," he said.

"Fine then," the older man said. "I'm Ranger Colton and this is Brady. Grab your gear and we'll drive ya there."

Wolverine finished buttoning his shirt and pushed his damp hair from his eyes. "Got it," he said, bending to pick up his boots. The men exchanged another look.

On the other hand, not all communication needed words, Wolverine thought. He had the sudden urge to snarl at both of them, but he swallowed it and followed them.

He walked barefooted to their truck—a big-wheeled jeep with mud splashed along its sides—and flopped in the back seat, bracing himself as they bounced alongside the river, and then onto a small muddied road riddled with potholes and half-swallowed by the forest around it. The road, such as it was, only made the ride worse. Wolverine grimaced; it was easier to walk, and would've been faster to run. He struggled to tie his wet boots as they jostled along.

The road grew more traveled as they drove, but if anything it only grew worse. Potholes turned into miniature lakes that Ranger Colton had to navigate around, and their speed slowed to a crawl. When Wolverine saw the scattered corpse of a bright green tent on the side of the makeshift road he jumped out of the jeep before they came to a stop.

His eyes narrowed at the splashes of human blood across the ground. He stepped around a soaked-in puddle that he paid attention to in scent more than sight, before crouching and bringing a hand down to drag marks in the dirt as he heard the two rangers climb out of the jeep and come up behind him.

The hair rose on the back of his neck and he felt a low growl rising in his chest. "Not a bear," he said, his voice low.

"Heh. What do you think it was? A badger? A wolverine? I've seen some pretty gruesome carcasses, but not even a pack of rabid wolves could do this."

Logan touched the scar of a footprint in the bloodied ground with two fingers, breathing in the unnatural scent beneath the blood and the terror and pain that he had been tracking. He was close now—closer than ever, and the trail was fresh. "Not any'a those." He straightened. "But whatever it is, I'm gonna find it."

"Sure, mister," the kid ranger, Brady, said, sizing him up. "But who do you think you are—?"

"The name's Wolverine. I'm an agent of Alpha Flight—Department H, special forces." Agent. Special forces. It was Mac's info and a claim to Heather's dream of a team of superheroes, but that didn't matter. The words slid off his tongue easier than they should have—his voice sounding too loud to his ears, but the men straightened at his tone. "Came out here lookin' for something-something feedin' off human bodies. Guess . . . guess we both just struck gold."

"Feeding off bodies?" The redhead's face looked vaguely green beneath the red acne. He gave a weak chuckle. "You mean, like, what? A Wendigo?"

"Eh?" he glanced up at him at the unfamiliar word.

"Ya know, the ghost stories? Guy eats another person and turns into a monster?"

Logan lifted an eyebrow, and looked back to the ground. "Huh." Sounded strange, but he'd heard—and seen—stranger.

Colton's expression was thoughtful. He took his hat off and rubbed his forehead. "I haven't heard of any Alpha Flight."

"Deal with . . . with protocol later," Wolverine said shortly. Protocol. Another one of those words. Its meaning wasn't as important as the reaction it caused—shutting them both up. "The guy died fast." He could tell by the blood. The man had been ripped up, but the blood was smeared and splattered: not sprayed from a still-pumping heart.

"The father. We . . . still haven't found most of him," Colton said.

Wolverine nodded. Chances were there wasn't much left to find. "Th' kid and lady were alive when it took 'em from here—lady hurt, but not bleedin' too much." He sniffed at the air, grimacing at the unnatural scent. "Gimme two hours. If they're alive, I'll bring 'em back." He looked up at them—even the kid ranger was a good head taller than he. "Will you be around?"

They nodded. It was enough. Wolverine let out a breath, letting tension from talking with them ease from his shoulders as he turned. He let them go from his thoughts and senses, ducked his head, and listened to the prickling on the back of his neck.

He'd been hunting, but now lives were in the balance. A lady, like Heather. And a kid—small and helpless—younger than Gambit had been, with his wry grin and strange eyes.

Words didn't matter any longer—time didn't matter. The men were inconsequential. _He _was inconsequential. There were only the woods, the dirt, the air. An indentation in the damp soil next to a tree—a print, but too large for an animal's, even a bear's—and the tuft of white fur that had caught on the branch of a pine. The faint scent of the woman's blood; the fear of the kid. And above all, the stink of rot and decay. Something unnatural and vile and _wrong_.

It made his lips curl back from his teeth in a snarl, and a growl grow in his throat. And for the first time in months, he let the animal do what it did best.

Unrestrained.

He followed across the river, down a hill and up a rise—with no sight of anything so big as a sparrow; the scent seemed to have scared the forest to silence, and it waited—watching.

The earth grew rougher—the rocks jagged, then cliffs of the mountains beginning to rise above him. He stepped from rock to rock—caution hardly slowing his haste.

And finally, a sound.

Wolverine froze still, halfway up a bouldered rise, his head tilting to catch it again.

There—more clearly this time. Breathing. Short, panting almost—like rabbit frozen with terror with nowhere left to run.

He still didn't move, turning his head slowly, his nose flaring for more recent scents, his eyes straining for motion amidst the grey cliffs.

Nothing.

He didn't wait another moment before darting forward towards the sound. His boots slipped on boulders as he scrambled downward, his fingers tearing against the rough stone and healing up without him noticing or caring. He slipped into the shade of the trees and stopped in front of a shallow crevice in the rocks, where a young boy huddled next to his mom. They stared at him with wide, terrified eyes.

The woman gave a muffled gasp. "We thought—" Her voice was soft and weak, but Wolverine held out a hand, cutting her off. He thought he'd heard . . .

Nothing. The woods didn't move—not even the wind in the branches. Not even a distant bird. Wolverine frowned.

He turned back to the kid and lady, ready to tell them to follow—but their eyes were still wide with terror, their scent rife with it. Frozen like rabbits.

He climbed down, coming closer, coming back to himself as he held out a hand. They stared at him, still terrified. Words. Needed words. He swallowed, his tongue feeling thick and awkward.

Push the animal back, ignore the bristling on the back of is neck. Ignore the instinct that told him to keep his eyes on the forest. That something was close. Something was _here._

He breathed in his nose and out his mouth, fixing his eyes on the mother and boy.

Words.

"Everythin . . . everythin's gonna be okay now," he said slowly. "Lemme take him."

"Who are you?"

Wolverine hesitated. "Name's Logan."

"That—that _thing_ . . . " the woman breathed. She didn't need to remind him; its scent burned in his nose.

"I'll take care'a it." She still stared. _Shock,_ something told him, and likely a concussion, from the look in her eyes. He reached out his hand again, his voice softer. "Come on. It'll be all right now. I got ya."

The lady eased over the boy reluctantly, but surprisingly the child just whimpered softly before burying his face in the front of Wolverine's shirt. He was small—Wolverine held him there with one arm as he reached to help the woman up. She wavered on her feet and held her arm gingerly, but nodded when he asked if she was okay, a new determination entering her scent, and something else that had been buried beneath fear, exhaustion, and despair: hope.

He helped her along, half-carrying her in the rougher places and keeping the boy in his arms. He frowned behind him often, scenting out the air, feeling the prickling on the back of his neck, and wished they would go faster. But the woman was pale despite her new burst of energy, and she stumbled more the farther they went. She left the scent of blood in their wake.

Closer. Closer. Sweat dripped into his eyes as he hastened them along.

He could smell the jeep, smell the rangers.

Close. Too close.

The rangers jumped from the jeep, staring and incredulous as they entered the clearing. Colton helped the lady to sit, giving her water and saying something—to him, or the kid? Wolverine didn't pay attention as he handed over the kid, looking over his shoulder. His fingers clenched in fists at his side as he turned.

A massive white beast barreled out of the woods with a roar to shake the trees to their roots, catching Wolverine in the side before he could even pop his claws.

* * *

_Now:_

Wolverine flattened himself next to the corner and held up a fist, stopping Alex and Rogue in their tracks. He glanced both ways and then army-ran across the hallway. There was no corner here, with the hallway curved upwards and around out of sight.

They hadn't gone up far when they turned the corner to see four mutants, spread out in the hall and ready.

Two tall men, one thick-shouldered and draped in black robes with a dark veil, the other rail-like in his thinness, bearing a black goatee. A black-garbed black lady with a cocky walk, and another man-frail, pale and almost green with what must be sickliness-cringed in the back. His eyes were wide, pupil-less, and solid red.

Wolverine didn't wait. With a glance he could tell the lady had fighting moves, but with mutants the one who seemed the most harmless could be the most dangerous. Best to get close up and personal quick. He lunged, swinging a fist that connected clean with the dark-skinned chick in the front, whipping her head back with a nasty _crack_.

"Frenzy!" a thick-accented man shouted as the woman hit the ground hard.

Wolverine turned towards to the mutant who'd spoken—the black-veiled man that stood head and shoulders above him, draped in black and red. Wolverine popped his claws, and the man reached out a gloved hand and a long, flaming whip curled out of his palm. Wolverine ran forward, ducking into a roll as the whip shot towards him. He felt the heat on his skin as it passed, barely missing him.

Rogue was right on his heals, grabbing the goateed man's shoulders and slamming her knee into his gut. He gasped, doubling over, but stretched out a hand towards her. Rogue knocked his fist to the side as fire blasted from his hands, scorching her hair, but the fire slammed into the wall and exploded, splashing like a ball of hot wax before vanishing into the air.

Rogue caught his wrists and flipped him over, slamming him hard onto the metal floor. She raised an fist to put him out of the game, but someone grabbed her wrist from behind. Rogue whipped her head around, but a fist connected with her cheek hard enough to send her reeling. Rogue slid across the floor to stare up at the woman she was sure Wolverine had put down for good. Her head rang like she'd been struck with a mallet, but there wasn't even a bruise on her opponent's face from Wolverine's blow.

"Thought you could sneak in here, X-Men?" the woman asked. Her voice was cold and hard, her black eyes narrowed. "You're pitiful."

"Rogue, down!" Havok shouted, throwing out his hands and jumping between her and the fire-throwing mutant. The weak wave of energy from Havok's hands was enough to make the fireball deflect from his hands, smashing into a wall and exploding in liquid flame. Havok gasped at the heat, but darted forward, deflecting the next the same, though he paled with the effort.

"Frenzy, is it?" Rogue asked, wiping blood from her lip and rolling back—putting distance between her and the woman and sliding to her feet in one move. "Just warmin' up, hon." She bolted forward, aiming a blow at Frenzy's midsection that was blocked with a fist like steel, and she barely caught the returning blow. They danced around each other, fists and feet flying. More than one of Frenzy's blows landed, and Rogue limped from a hard kick to her thigh.

They separated for a moment, and Frenzy smiled, winded but unbruised or bloodied. "Near-impervious skin, girl. I can keep this up all day. How about you?"

"Been doing this since you were in diapers, sugah. Let me teach you a thing or two." She swung in. Frenzy blocked her fist to her side, but Rogue twisted and slammed her elbow back into Frenzy's nose. Impervious skin or no, blood spurted from her nose from the blow, and she barely managed to block Rogue's finger-shot to her eyes. She staggered back, cursing.

"I'm going to kill you for that, X-Man," Frenzy said, and with blood painting her lips and chin, her eyes fevered with fury, her looks fitted her name. Rogue grinned and held up a hand, gesturing her forward.

Wolverine pressed on his man, searching for an opening as he kept half an eye on the last mutant in the back. The frail-looking mutant had backed up to the far wall, and had his strange eyes shut tight, a hand to his temple. A telepath? Whatever he was doing, Logan knew he needed to put him down fast.

He paused, panting. His arms and legs stung from close-calls that he hadn't been able to completely miss, and his fists ached, blood seeping between his fingers, which were slowly going numb. Never a good sign. Rage seeped into his vision, red pressing against his consciousness. Rage from the stinging pain, from the burning in his hands and fists, rage in his blood, dripping on the floor and slipping beneath his feet.

"So what do they call you?" Wolverine asked, hoping to take a moment to pull his rage into control. But his voice came out a growl, and his clenched fists shook. Wolverine gritted his teeth and took a breath. He needed to _think._ To stay in control. The X-Kids would be helpless against him if he lost it now, and he wouldn't be healing up from the mess he'd make of himself. He wasn't a mutant here. He needed to be _human._

Why didn't he feel human? Why hadn't the berserker left with his powers? It pressed on him, snarling. More alive than ever.

He eyed the whip. It _hummed _in the stale air. "What? Don't speak English?" Logan said, the words sounding unnatural in his ears as he fought to keep the growl away.

"I am Senyaka. And you ah te Wolveh-eene."

Wolverine bared his teeth at the wave of irrational fury at the sound of his own name, but clamped down. No. Think. Do this smart. The animal couldn't help here.

He blinked, shaking his head against the buzzing rage. The memories crept in slowly, like drops of water on white-hot coals. The accent had the up-and-down musicality of Sri Lanka—a strong voice, with the telling soft vowels and well-articulated consonants. But the name was no alias. "Not—not special enough for a codename?" he panted, shaking his head as he fought the rage for control. His words sounded a thousand miles away. "What? Whiplash already taken?"

"My nehme is ee-nuf, X-Mahn. Not all myu-tahnts feel te need to hide who ve ah." His words were emphasized with a crack of the whip. Wolverine twisted to the side, knocking the whip away with his claws, though he jerked back with a gasp as a shock rocked up his arms through his claws, shocking him and turning his vision momentarily white. The berserker howled, and Wolverine reeled back, fighting for control.

The man seemed to sense his weakness. He ran forward, whip cracking. Wolverine hit the ground and rolled, managing to deflect another blow with his claws, but the next wrapped around his wrist like hot fire, jerking him around to slam him hard against the wall. Wolverine didn't even feel the impact beside the torrent.

It felt like Bloodscream, but a thousand times hotter. It wasn't blood that rushed from his veins, but _life_. Life stripping from his flesh, his brain, his bones, tearing from him through the whip, ripping him down to bones. His vision white, he grabbed blindly at the whip with his free hand, pulling himself forward. Heat sliced down through his palm.

He was under the knife again—conscious as they pierced through him, and bullets tore through, shattering bones into shrapnel and popping organs like balloons of blood. Conscious as they drilled into his bone, into his _head_. Conscious as they skinned him alive, stealing his heart, stealing his mind, stealing his _soul._

The pain increased tenfold and he staggered, falling blindly to his knees. His claws flailed out, and Senyaka stepped back. "Still fighting?" his voice was impressed. "No screams, Wolveh-eene?" He reached forward with a bare hand and grabbed Wolverine's forearm.

Wolverine screamed.

Senyaka laughed, but behind him the small mutant suddenly opened blood-red eyes and shrieked, his voice shrill and mindless—a mind driven mad with pain.

Senyaka gave a howl of agony and collapsed as if crushed by a thousand pounds of rock, and behind them the fighting stopped. Rogue fell to the ground, screaming as she grabbed her head, and Havok howled, spasming on the ground. Frenzy screamed, clawing at her face hard enough that she would have left bloody gouges, and the fiery mutant passed out in a dead faint.

Their screams reverberated in the metal hallway—hoarse, wild. The screams of a person who had no thoughts but pain.

And rage.

Wolverine yanked on the whip, grasping out to snag Senyaka's robes. He ripped the veil away, grabbing his hair and pounding his face into the metal floor. Senyaka didn't struggle, his howls no less maddened as his mouth flooded with blood. One last slam against the metal and he went silent, his whip vanishing from his hand.

The pain didn't end.

Wolverine gasped for air, choking off his own howls as the others' continued to echo around him, reverberating a thousand times against metal walls and floors and tunnels. Breathe—_breathe. _He raised his head, searching . . . The red-eyed mutant was still screaming—staring at him.

The pain seized his throat, but Logan swallowed it, biting down on his own screams. It was pain. He knew pain. It meant nothing. It meant _nothing. _Fire spiked up his legs as he forced himself to stand, a whimper shaking from his throat as he staggered forward. One step. Two. The hallway swam, threatening to tip him over. Three. He tasted blood in his mouth as he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from letting his screams rip from his throat again. Four steps. Five.

He managed enough thought to withdraw his claws before he punched the pale mutant in the jaw, knocking him out cold.

The pain vanished like a fire washed away in a tsunami.

Logan wavered, threatening to tip over, and grabbed out to the wall to keep him upright. He felt drained and weak, like an old man with half his life's blood gone. The pain had carried him, and he found himself grasping for the remnants of it to keep him from passing clean out.

His wrist was raw—the flesh burned off from the whip, blackened blood congealed around the opening—he could see the tips of his claws retracted between the darkness. One of his makeshift bandages had fallen from his hands, which still leaked red-but more slowly, as if he lacked the energy to even bleed properly. His palm was slashed down the middle from where he'd grabbed the whip, baring blackened flesh to the air.

The hall had gone quiet. The fireball mutant was still where he'd fallen. Havok hadn't moved, but lay shivering against the wall, and Frenzy whimpered softly from where she lay curled on the floor, eyes staring at nothing.

Rogue rose slowly, pale, eyes wide and hair disarrayed. She looked at Logan, somehow still assessing the situation. She pulled her glove off and reached for Frenzy's arm. She blinked at the contact, but didn't pull back. Frenzy's shaking slowed, but her eyes were still open as Wolverine stepped over flame-boy's unconscious form and pressed down on her jugular until she went unconscious.

Rogue rose slowly, but there was more color in her cheeks. "Just enough juice to take some'a her powers, even if it takes a bit more time. Alex, you still with us?" her voice was rough from screaming, and shook slightly.

Havok nodded, still shaking, but he reached up a hand when Rogue offered hers to him. "W-what was th-that?" he asked weakly, wiping his face of agonized sweat.

"You got enough from him to get in his head?" Logan interrupted.

Rogue nodded. "Orator," shesaid, and nodded towards the small greenish mutant slumped down the hall, his red eyes closed. She looked at Wolverine, who was looking unwavering in the forward direction, a hand discretely pressed against the wall to support him. Her face was stone. "An empath, with the ability to project emotions. I felt him stirring up fear and rage, before . . . the pain. I think it became too much for him to control." Her eyes didn't move from Wolverine, but Alex whipped to stare at him.

He opened his mouth, struggling for words, but Wolverine interrupted brusquely. "You got enough from her to know where to go from here?"

Rogue took a step towards him, her own movements recovered save for a slight limp from her fight with Frenzy. The agony had been in her mind, and now only remained in memory. Blood dripped slowly from Wolverine's limp fingers onto the metal floor. She shivered.

"Polaris is alive," Rogue said, eyes not moving from Logan's face. "I know where they're keeping her, but it's already fading." Wolverine finally looked at her, and Rogue met his eyes squarely. They weren't a young girl's eyes anymore—they were a soldier's, and though they reflected concern something hard kept it back. They had a job to do, and everything else could wait until it was done. "If we mean to go ahead, Logan, we need to move now." Beneath the words was the question—could he do it?

Logan nodded, pushing away from the wall and tearing off another piece of his plaid shirt. He let the rest of his overshirt fall to the ground; it was little more than rags now. His hands shook, his vision wavered, but he didn't let that slow him down as he bound his wrist and knuckles again. "Take point," he said between gritted teeth. "Summers, you follow."

Alex was still staring at him—at his hands, specifically. Watching Wolverine wrap the cloth tight around the raw wounds, and watching the blood drip onto Wolverine's already blood-spattered jeans. His own hand touched his own wrist, as if still feeling some phantom pain. Had they felt all he had felt?

"Hey, Summers!"

Havok jerked his eyes up to meet his , but then stared at Wolverine's face like he was seeing him for the first time. He suddenly pressed his lips together, his eyes darkening and jaw tightening as he nodded. He turned and followed after Rogue with clenched fists.

Wolverine followed after them, doing his damndest to keep his feet moving.

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine bulleted through the air, slamming back into the jeep. Metal curled back around him, sending the vehicle skidding back sideways from the force of the blow. The white beast followed, a blur leaping through the air and landing on him, ripping his back open as he lunged forward with finger-long teeth to rip a chunk from his shoulder.

Wolverine twisted twisting around to slash at him, and felt his claws catch. The beast released him with a deafening bellow, but Wolverine pushed back, one arm hanging useless as he scrambled forward with the other. Blood ran like fire down his back, his healing a low simmer beneath the raging flames.

He caught sight of mad yellow eyes—but the beast jerked back; Wolverine's claws barely grazed its chest, and even as it twisted out of reach another massive arm whipped around towards him. Wolverine managed to roll out of the way, coming up in a crouch to lunge and drag a set of claws over the monster's eyes, carving red runnels across its contorted face.

The beast staggered back, howling with a force that made the trees shake as it clawed at its own eyes. Wolverine stared despite himself before it lunged back towards him, head whipping around blindly for him as its eyes rained scarlet against white. But the blood was already congealing, the flow slowing as he watched.

An accelerated healing factor?

Whatever this was, it wasn't going down easily.

Wolverine dove between its legs, narrowly dodging is tail. He cut deep into the beast's thigh and it staggered back, forcing him to fall back to avoid its blind swings.

_BLAM! BLAM!_

Wolverine jerked back at the sounds, almost flattening himself on the ground at a burst of panic at the gunshots. He braced for the pain, but it was the Wendigo that howled—it'd taken a shotgun blast to the face, and the next to its shoulder.

He glanced back. Ranger Colton stood with a smoking gun, expressing grim. "Run!" Wolverine snapped to the rangers, wiping dripping blood from his eyes. "Take them and get out of here!" He didn't have time to see if they obeyed.

Wolverine darted in, hamstringing the beast, but it caught him with a backhand and he was catapulted backwards, digging a rut in the dirt with his claws as he felt the gashes across his chest from the blow begin to pull together. He caught sight of the rangers running into the forest as the Wendigo turned, a single yellow eye wild on him, healed. It limped—blood already stemmed from its cut hamstring, the limp already fading.

This was no creature of the woods. A thing of myth and legend, of nightmares . . . and feasting on human flesh, by the stink of its breath.

A Wendigo?

The Wendigo(?) made a run at him. Wolverine whipped aside, burying a claw deep in its side.

The beast grabbed his arm and bit deep into his shoulder, whipping back as if trying to tear it right off. Muscle tore and tendons snapped as claws ripped against his back, sparking off metal ribs and vertebrae.

Wolverine's teeth bared as he turned his strike around to catch at the clawed hand. Two claw-like fingers went spinning into the air, and the Wendigo recoiled.

Wolverine didn't take the time to regain his balance. He leaped upwards, flipping over the beast's head to twist and dig into its vulnerable back, away from those blood-soaked claws.

Mid-air, something ripped into his belly, tearing his guts clean through.

Wolverine's trajectory tilted. He threw out an arm to claw the beast's back, but instead tumbled like a puppet with its strings cut to thud to the ground. Immediately the beast lifted him, holding him a dozen paces up from the ground by a leg and catapulting him through the air.

He slammed into the jeep's window, landing on the front seat with his legs up on the dashboard like a rag doll with its stuffing pulled out. His vision wavered—pale and shadowed as he looked down at his gut and realized why.

It'd ripped through his abdominal and the mesentery. Could feel the air on his guts like acid, half-torn and then flung out of place.

A mess.

He felt strangely empty and cold, leaking scarlet onto the seat . . . agony swallowed him, shivering up his still-exposed spine and seizing his lungs. He struggled to breathe, trembling.

Was this what it felt like to die?

He snarled breathlessly, straining to sit up, his claws cutting into the seats as he struggled. The Wendigo hunched across the meadow, and then turned and disappeared into the forest.

Wolverine blinked. Where'd it go? Where—?

The rangers. The lady. The kid.

Wolverine tried to sit up again, but his breath didn't come easy—his diaphragm shredded clean through. He managed to get upright, but struggled to hold his guts in with his good arm without tipping over. His vision paled, and he clung onto consciousness as he held his intestines in his hands.

_No._ He couldn't stop now. He couldn't . . .

Couldn't move with his guts slipping between his fingers. Healing factor going to have a tough time with this one. Couldn't . . . move . . .

He looked down at his hand, laying in scarlet, and realized he'd fallen on a folded length of fabric. He lifted it with clumsy fingers, blinking back darkness.

A flag. Red and white, with the pointing edges of a leaf in its center. Looked like Mac's suit.

A Canadian flag.

He gritted his teeth, lifting it. He held his stomach and intestines in with the stiff arm the Wendigo had tried biting off as he wrapped it around his gut and tied it tight. He gasped, blood climbing up his esophagus and wetting his lips, drenching the flag from the front and back.

He turned, letting gravity carry his feet into the jeep with him as he plunged a claw under the wheel. Blood-wet fingers slipped and shook on sharp wires, but he pressed them together and the engine roared to life. He gritted his teeth, strapping a seatbelt over the blood-soaked flag to hold himself together.

The jeep handled poorly—the axles bent, and the steering wheel itself half-flattened from his weight hitting it. He pressed the pedal to the metal and spat out a mouthful of blood, fighting to clear his nose of blood to catch a scent as branches slapped the side of the jeep.

A gunshot shook the air, and a woman's scream, echoing in his confused hearing.

Wolverine put the pedal to the floor, a fearsome, grim sight as he shot through the trees.

He saw the rangers, the lady, the kid. Saw the Wendigo, a stained-scarlet white mass in his blurred vision, and he gunned the motor forward.

The remaining windows of the car shattered as he slammed into the Wendigo. Wolverine kept his foot pressed hard to the pedal—his vision fading, his strength focused on holding onto the wheel. The Wendigo clawed against the hood of the car as they slammed through rail-like trees, each hit like a shotgun to the gut. One last tree gave way, and Wolverine saw the ravine open up in front of them before he ran them both over it.

He jerked against the seatbelt as the jeep twisted in midair. Wolverine's claws shot out reflexively, and he gasped out a curse. The jeep hit the side of the cliff, twisting and tumbling down to the riverbed below, screaming metal, rocks sliding, bouncing, pounding.

Wolverine must've blacked out briefly. He opened his eyes to find himself hanging suspended upside down, blood streaming from his gut up his chest, over his face.

He flailed, cutting away his seatbelt and slicing clear of the overturned jeep. He groaned, crawling out inch by painful inch, a hand over the strips of flag holding himself together. He fell onto his side, looking up at as the Wendigo as it lifted its head from the shallow of the river where it'd fallen. Wolverine eyed it as he hunched his shoulders, inwardly screaming as he pulled himself to his feet by sheer force of will. His spine exposed, guts in arms . . . he wouldn't make it far.

The Wendigo managed to gain its feet, but wobbled, blood coating its own pale face and dripping over its twisted muzzle. One arm hung lifelessly at its side. It saw Wolverine and bore its teeth in a snarl.

Wolverine met him gaze for gaze, snarl for snarl. The creature was crazed and rabid, but an animal still, no matter how unnatural. And Wolverine knew animals.

He felt blood trickling from his nose, turning his own teeth red. He didn't move, didn't waver. Didn't look away.

The monster groaned, its head sinking. It turned and staggered away across the river to disappear into the woods.

Wolverine turned drunkenly to look up the ravine, blinking blood and dark spots from his vision.

He lifted a foot to take a step and blinked when he found himself on his knees, one hand away from falling flat on his face. He let himself sink down to his side, curling around his middle as his back screamed where it'd been clawed down to metal, each uncontrolled shudder of pain causing another wave of agony sweep through him, building on itself.

Finally giving in to it, his eyes slid up into his head and he fell still, blood soaking into the bank beneath him and turning the river's water red.

TBC . . .


	59. Blood and Diamonds

Happy NANOWRIMO! I figured I'd split it a bit between this story and my original one this year. There's no way I'm going to get the whole 50k in with everything going on in my life right now, but I'll do the best I can.

This is a bit of a shorter chap, and it focuses less on Wolvie than some others . . . but I had to get this told so I could move on. Anyway, I'm off to write some more. Enjoy!

Thanks for all who are hanging in there and, as always, a special thanks to my wonderful reviewers! I hope you enjoy the chapter. :)

* * *

Chapter 59: Blood and Diamonds

* * *

_Then:_

"Oh my God."

"Don't look, ma'am."

"Tommy, honey, don't look. Did you . . . did you see him?"

Fingers, pressing against the side of his neck. Wolverine wanted to flinch away, but couldn't. The fingers jerked back anyway.

"Good Lord. This man is _alive!"_

Someone rolled him onto his back with a grunt. Fingers peeled back something from his gut, causing pain to flare up his spine. He couldn't even groan, but the pain made him flutter to semi-consciousness, his eyes still wrapped in darkness.

Where was he? How . . . how long ago . . . ?

"Oh hell . . . "

The smell of vomit and bile. Someone being sick nearby—a nauseous smell that didn't help his swimming head one bit.

A hand brushed across his forehead. He would have recoiled—the touch was like a spark of terror down his spine.

_Couldn't move . . ._

His breath caught in his throat until the touch pulled back.

"He's burning up."

He struggled to open his eyes as something pressed back against his pain-filled middle. Consciousness swam in and out, light creeping in through his eyelids, burning him.

_How'd he get here? What did he remember?_

_. . . . ._

_. . . nothin' . . ._

Pain everywhere. All through him, back burning, guts on fire.

Sun on the side of his face, red and white through his eyelids. White stained with blood and pain and falling.

Small hands on his shoulder, as if trying to shake him awake. He shuddered, instinctively trying to pull away. His breath rasped in his throat.

"Tommy, don't touch him . . ."

Hadn't smelled the lady and kid . . . that out of it. Needed to sit up.

_Sit up_.

_Sit—_

"GRRRRARRRRRRGGGGH!"

Was that him? Was that his sound, ripped from his throat?

Stomach screaming at him. Felt like he'd been ripped in two. Whatever happened . . . it was bad. Mouth caked with blood. Throat dry as desert.

Eyes cracked open—too bright. He squinted up, wanting to lift a hand to shade his eyes, but his arms wouldn't rise properly, and his eyes shut again. Heard distance exclamations, hands reaching forward to hold him down. He flinched away instinctively, fingers clenching, an arm rising to his gut in a flare of pain.

Panic. People touching him, pushing him down. Liquid beneath him, and cold, cold, cold . . . had he ever felt so cold? Cold as ice, though the sun was hot above him, and sweat beaded on his face. Pain all around.

He shook his head, but immediately stopped so he wouldn't pass out again.

Unconscious, surrounded by people . . . the thought made panic rise in him. He trembled as a hand brushed his forehead, cradling his head above the rocks. The touch burned, somehow flaring beyond even the pain as he leaned back, too weak to pull away. Too weak to move.

Something within his mind snarled at the feeling.

He clenched his eyes shut, panting. Sweat—or blood?—trickled down the side of his face.

_No._

This was the animal again—he could feel it rising out of his pain. He couldn't remember why exactly, but something bad would happen if he let it take him now. He couldn't—couldn't let it out.

Wolverine gritted his teeth, tightening his fist against his gut. He gasped with the pain of it, but it cleared his head.

Consciousness swam, but the spike of adrenaline and determination gave him energy enough to open his eyes again.

Nightmares faded to the reality of pain. But he'd take pain over fear any day.

Blurred shadows, and a blue sky overhead. The sight of it brought him back from the brink of madness.

He breathed.

"Let . . . m'up." He inched his arms behind him, determined not to lie helpless on his back even if they didn't help him. Hands went behind him, supporting his him, and Wolverine's voice cracked.

"W-water."

A water bladder touched his lips. The liquid was lukewarm and tasted like it'd been in the sun too long—but it was water. It returned, returned again. He finally got enough energy to peer out at the three blurred faces looking down at him—expressions ranging between nauseous, concerned, and incredulous.

He struggled to sit up farther, but the man behind him held his shoulders as someone smaller knelt in front of him.

"Logan. Don't move."

_Logan._ His name. _Him._

The lady. How'd she know his name?

How'd she . . .

He remembered the scent of the man holding his head—the ranger. Could smell a shotgun nearby—recently fired. "'m okay," Wolverine rasped, trying to get up again. He managed to get away from their hands, using his arms more than his core—propping himself into a sitting position and keeping a hand to the bloodied flag around his middle, drying black mixed with the red and white.

He could sleep this off. It'd take some hours, a day maybe, and this would be nothing more than another bad memory—vague and hazy. But he didn't have time to wait. He had to remember. He had to hold on to the now—keep it harsh and sharp against his consciousness despite the fogginess around him.

They had to move.

He kept a hand over his gut and rose slowly, clenching his teeth to stifle his groans from the stabs of pain as hands caught his bruised and torn shoulders and arms, helping him. Those bits of pain were small—insignificant as he stretched healing skin, tearing healing wounds again as he moved, head lifting as he tried to focus on the blurred river, the twisted remnants of the jeep, the bloodstained rocks under his feet. Tried to keep from shaking, but didn't do any good.

Ignore it.

He tore open his own guts as he moved. Healing factor working overtime, pulling him back together_._

But just like all his other enhanced senses . . . he could feel every inch of his wounds. Was this pain anything beyond the pain of his body stitching itself back together? It made his breath shudder, his hands shake, but what did it matter?

Sweat dripped down the side of his face, streaking through blood and dirt. He couldn't bother to lift a hand to wipe it away.

_What . . . did . . . this t'. . . me?_

They were talking to him, but he didn't hear it. Eyes focused on a scrap of white fur and flesh, ripped from a monster. The smell of decay and vileness.

_Wendigo_.

He inhaled sharply, pulling away from the hands as the memories returned like a wave. The pain was no less, but he had it under control.

He couldn't afford weakness.

Wolverine turned to the rangers and the lady, shoulders hunched around himself and one arm crossed over his middle. Their eyes were no wider than the kid's—his mom clung to the boy more than he clung to her. The lady looked pale—her hair plastered on one side with her own blood—near ready to tip over. He knew how she felt.

He had to focus on taking a good enough breath to be able to speak.

"T-take the kid," Wolverine said, pointing roughly at the rookie ranger, whose hair looked redder than ever against his plaster-pale face. His finger swung to the older ranger, who'd been supporting him from behind and now looked like he was waiting to catch Wolverine when he fell again. Wasn't going to happen. "Help her." He wiped his arm across his lips, flaking away and smearing drying blood. He ignored their stares, like he ignored the blinding pain as he took a step forward, and another. He glanced back, but didn't catch their eyes. Didn't want them to see the pain there. Didn't want to see the looks in their eyes, either. "Got a . . . a safe place?" he panted.

"The Ranger's Way Station, a little over two miles out. But—"

No time to rest. No time to wait. "Th'Wendigo—think . . . heals faster than me." He remembered feeling his claws cut through tendon and muscle—had hardly slowed it down. "It'll . . . be back."

"W-wendigo?" the kid ranger—Brady?—stammered as he took the kid from his mom, staring at him. He was slightly green—it was him who'd sicked up earlier. Wolverine looked him over briefly, and the kid looked away.

"Yer call," Wolverine said, stifling a groan as he took another step. He could feel their eyes staring at him. Feel skin stretching back over exposed ribs on his back. Feel his guts curling back into place like snakes. Every agonizing inch, screaming inside.

"Move," he gruffed, not looking back. He could still feel their eyes on him, watching the wounds on his back draw together and begin to fade. Made him feel exposed. Naked.

He gritted his teeth and ignored all of it.

* * *

_Now:_

Kurt managed to transport himself and Emma Frost a number of floors up Magneto's metal fortress before his powers had began to fade. When Emma dropped out of contact with the others, they'd decided there was nowhere to go but forward on foot, sliding as shadows through the shadow-dimmed hallways.

"This is what your fool heroics get you X-Men," Frost said, fixing one of her gloves as they walked, her heels cringingly loud on the metal floor. She'd taken the teleporting well enough: the first time Kurt teleported with people it usually ended with them heaving on the floor. Frost had simply dabbed at her forehead with a pale handkerchief, and when the last one felt like squeezing through a bottle she'd calmly suggested they not try that again. "Stuck in a metal tower, surrounded by enemies—the least of which is the master of magnetism himself. And now we continue on without the strength of our powers."

"Ve are not completely helpless," Nightcrawler said with a flash of his pointed teeth. His blue fur and dark clothes made him almost invisible in the dim light. "Keep your eye out for a sabre or rapier: I am not half bad myself."

"So that's who you are, is it? A demonic priest, who spends his time learning the art of swordplay?"

Kurt shook his head good-naturedly. "Laugh if you vish, Ms. Frost, but I have found peace with who I am. Can you, vit all your beauty, say the same?"

"So you noticed." Emma brushed a hand across her pale cheek, but Kurt didn't look twice at her. She lifted an eyebrow. "So. You're the one the Wolverine trusts to handle me," she said.

"You think he vas wrong to?"

"What I think, priest, is that if I truly wanted to give you X-Men trouble, any or all of you would be hard-pressed to stop me."

"Not to hurt your pride, but you could not use your telepathy against us all at once, Ms. Frost."

"If I wished to make a crass frontal assault, you may be right. But who said anything about telepathy at all?" Emma said, casting a cool smile back at him. Kurt frowned at her back.

Mid-step, Emma suddenly tensed, then whipped around and struck out with a fist. Kurt blinked as her fist stopped dead in mid-air, and a white-haired woman _rippled_ into visibility out of the air, holding Emma's wrist where she'd caught it in front of her face.

The woman slammed her foot into Emma's gut, who went skidding across the floor. A man suddenly popped into existence in front of where she landed, grinning. His face was laced with black tattoos lining his brow and chin.

Vanisher. Kurt had read of him on the school's database. Teleporting was his power, and apparently it wasn't blocked like his own powers.

Kurt didn't bother trying to teleport; he crouched, leaping towards the pale-haired woman with unnatural grace. He swung at her, but the movement was slow for him: it barely brushed her shoulder as she dodged aside, coming across and grabbing his shoulder. She used his own momentum to flip him over—he landed on his feet, but stumbled slightly.

Whatever Magneto was doing, it was affecting more than just his teleportation.

"Your mutation is an interesting one," the woman said, eying him. "Have you ever wondered what it felt like to be normal?" She reached out a hand towards him, and Nightcrawler felt a burning on his skin, like a thousand ants crawling up his arms. He looked down to see the blue of his fur shifting, rippling away to pale skin.

He staggered back, holding up his hand as if to block her, yet unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of his own human skin.

"Stop this!" he cried.

She smiled at him, and the air rippled. She vanished into thin air.

Kurt turned sharply, hands raised to block a strike he couldn't see. The first strike hit his chin, spinning him on his heel. He fell, scrambling to put his back to the wall so she couldn't come up behind him.

Down the hall, Emma ducked, rolling to the side with surprising grace considering her high heels as Vanisher appeared and disappeared, darting in and out like a phantom.

"Emma—the other—" Kurt tried.

"Strike to your right—now!" Emma snapped, not glancing at him.

Kurt reacted without hesitation, whipping around with a roundhouse kick towards empty air. His foot caught someone's midsection—the pale-haired woman appeared, doubled-over and gasping for air. Kurt flipped back, catching her chin with his heel. She went down hard.

There was a grunt, and Kurt looked up in surprise to see Vanisher collapse to the ground like a rag doll.

Emma pulled back her fist and calmly straightened her white clothes. "My powers may be weakened, but I could still sense where he was going to appear," she said. "It was in the front of his mind." She considered the unconscious man. "Man has a glass jaw."

"Your hand?"

Emma spread her fingers in front of her, looking at the veins of diamond sketched from her wrist to her fingers. One finger was transparent save for the scarlet spider webs of blood vessels through the diamond, and a stretch along her knuckles had turned diamond only on the surface. Muscle bended and twisted beneath the surface. Emma clenched her hand and the diamond vanished.

"My powers are working about as well as yours," she said, brushing back a strand of hair that had fallen out of place. She pulled a white handkerchief from her belt and dabbed at her face. Clearly the effort had been a strain, even in such small amounts.

"The woman—she . . . changed me." Kurt raised a hand, bending his two long fingers and thumb together. "It doesn't not seem to be permanent." He reached out a hand toward her, but Emma shook her head, eyes scanning the room—but not for anything visible.

"Whatever her powers were, she is not the main source of what's blocking our powers. I can still barely track your mind—theirs, unconscious, are invisible to me. We need to hurry."

They moved up the halls, keeping low but moving quickly. Kurt often went on all fours, peering around the turns. Doorways began appearing at intervals—bedchambers, some, or massive halls with metal pillars stretching towards iron chandeliers. They hung hauntingly in the unlit shadows, the metal seeming to seep all warmth from the starlight seeping in the giant windows along the halls.

The corridor opened up to a wide promenade—eerily empty in the darkness.

Kurt turned, staring out a balcony that looked over the ocean. They'd risen up near the top of these towers, and it seemed as if he could see to the edge of the world. Moonlight danced on the endless sea, glimmering white diamonds among black velvet.

"Watch the hall," Frost said, turning towards the double doors behind them.

Emma pushed inside, expecting another grand hall, but her heels fell on plush carpet. She stilled, staring at the bed in the middle of the room, then slowly moved forward.

She slowed as she saw the grey-headed figure. There was no question who was sleeping in that bed.

Magneto.

Emma paused over the bed, a hand rising towards him slightly.

In her diamond form, all it would take was a twitch of her wrist to snap his neck. The end of the mutant terrorist—

Kurt stepped into the room. "Emma? Is—"

Magneto's eyes shot open.

A sheet of metal struck the blue furred man sideways, sweeping him outside the window, shattering glass out into the night. Another swept towards her, wrapping her in a stiff embrace. Magneto staggered as she struck at him telepathically, but with her powers weakened he was able to reach for his helmet. He slid it down around his head and rose—free from her weakened mental touch.

He gathered his robe around him. "You are not an X-Man," he said, his blue steel eyes fixed on hers. Emma was not easily cowed, but this was a powerful man before her. A hard man.

"These days they'll let anyone into their ranks," she said, voice cool. "Though apparently you've stooped even lower. Kidnapping, Magneto?"

"You're referring to my daughter," he said, voice hard as steel. Not at all like a normal person who had just been woken from his bed.

Emma's lip curled. "According to rumor you have a few of those running around. That hardly justifies you sweeping them away from their lives on a whim."

He watched her. "You are not like the rest of them. You're no blind optimistic fool—you know what mutants face. You have faced them." His eyes narrowed. "You are a telepath. Not one as powerful as Charles Xavier, perhaps, but certainly an asset to have. Join me, and you'll find yourself a part of something far greater. A true part of mutant kind—standing where we belong, above and apart. Something more powerful than these naïve children, playing at heroes. Mankind hunts us, and would kill us if they were given the chance. Join me."

Emma stared at him a long moment, pale. Images of screams and fire and ash danced behind her eyes—her students, dying around her as they reached out with melting fingers, catching at her as she stared, frozen and unfeeling in diamond. Reaching out to them as their skin turned black and crumbled. Bodies crushed under debris, leaving only her—unscratched, cold, and forever hard. Victims of hate: only children—killed because they looked different, or could do something that none other could. Because they were mutants.

"Almost," she said, her voice hoarse. She swallowed, wetting her throat. "Almost, Magneto. But not enough."

The ground rumbled beneath their feet—metal vibrating against Emma's heels. Magneto frowned, looking to the hall, confident in her helplessness.

Emma Frost's heart felt cold and hard, and she embraced the feeling—supple flesh turning unbreakable, eyes turning soulless as she changed to diamond and left the pain behind.

It wasn't as complete as usual—flesh marbled through diamond, and she could see unchanged bone and muscle beneath diamond skin on her arm. But it was enough. She stretched, bending through steel and towards him.

Emma dodged another flying sheet of metal, ducking towards him. Magneto moved back, attention torn. Clearly something bigger was going on in the hallways; the floor was rumbling again, and Emma had the distinct feeling that the entire tower was swaying precariously with the quaking.

Emma ducked, striking out and hitting the man flat in the chest. Magneto fell back against the wall, and Emma followed through, hands going to his throat. Magneto held up a hand—a bar of metal grabbed her wrists as her fingers clenched around his throat.

They froze, the floor quaking, cold blue eyes locked on those flecked with spots of unfeeling diamond. Gridlocked.

"Look what they do to us," Magneto whispered, blood running from the side of his head from where he hit the wall. His eyes were desperate, but not with fear. _Fervor_. "They turn us against each other. United nothing could stop us. _Nothing!"_

Emma's lips tightened. She could _feel _the pressure of the metal against the half-diamond flesh of her wrists, feel it pressing against her with a strength that would have left her human bones broken to dust. She trembled, sweat beading on her still-flesh brow.

"Go to hell," she said.

With a grunt, she pushed back, separating him from her. The metal ripped away from her wrist, leaving a bloody scratch along the pale remaining flesh on the back of her arm. The wall suddenly opened up behind Magneto and he stepped back through, sealing it behind him.

Apparently he had bigger problems to worry about right now.

Emma swore, striding to the balcony and looking around for Nightcrawler.

He hung precariously on a metal gargoyle twenty paces down—hands clinging, but powers weakened too much to carry him up to safety. Emma glanced back at the room—Magneto had gone, probably to the commotion in the hall—and let herself revert to flesh. She gasped and wavered on her feet at the effort, and held onto the shattered wall to keep from getting swept over the edge with the gusting wind.

"Nightcrawler!" she shouted, regaining her balance and stepping carefully forward. "Hold on, Kurt."

"If you insist," Kurt said faintly from below, with a flash of a grin despite the danger.

Emma set her jaw, heading back to the room and moving quickly to pull the sheets off the bed and. She tore strips, tying it together into a rough rope. She tested it, pulling tight before lowering it down. The white lengths swung dozens of stories above waves crashing into razor-sharp rocks below. Kurt's ubiquitous smile shook a hair as he reached out, trusting his grip on the sheets as Emma strained to pull him up. He scrambled onto the platform himself, climbing to his feet a safe distance from the edge. Emma joined him, flesh again and pale from the exertion.

"You're hurt," Kurt said, reaching for her arm.

"Just a scratch," Emma said, looking down and grimacing at the splatter of blood on her white clothing. "Well, this outfit is ruined," she sighed, wiping her forehead.

"Where did he go?"

"To the fighting, I'd assume. We need to hurry and shut down whatever is blocking our powers. This way." Emma heading out the room and down the corridor. She'd glimpsed into Magneto's mind just enough.

It was close—Magneto obviously didn't want Lorna to be far. Just down the hallway Emma stopped at a blank length of metal walling, clenching her fist.

Emma concentrated, sweat beading on her forehead as she turned her right arm to diamond from fingertips to shoulder and slammed against the seamless wall. It caved in a foot, splitting the metal in the center from the force. She drew back, diamond webbing up her neck as she gritted her teeth and pulled back for another swing. The wall caved, and the third swing she slammed clean through into an elaborately-furnished bedroom.

Lorna was already on her feet, the light on overhead despite the dazed look of someone who'd been wrenched out of sleep suddenly—and she stared as they broke through the wall into her room, a hand flying up defensively as she saw Emma.

Emma eyed her coolly, diamond evaporating like frost above a flame. "Why haven't you freed yourself already?"

Lorna's open hand closed into a trembling fist, her jaw tightening, and she stepped forward as if ready to resort to fists.

Kurt stepped forward quickly. "She is with us, Polaris."

The green-haired woman's fist lowered, her eyes flicking from Emma. "Alex?"

Kurt nodded. "He is here."

"My powers aren't working. I can barely lift a thimble."

"It seems to be affecting us all. Do you know what is causing it?" Kurt asked.

Lorna shook her head, rubbing her eyes. "Magneto—he allowed me to walk the halls, at times. It always seems worse whenever I return up here."

Emma nodded. "Up we go, then."

The lights overhead flickered, flooding the room with complete darkness before blinking back on. Kurt glanced at Emma, who blinked at Polaris. She smirked suddenly.

"What was that?" Lorna asked.

"That must be our other dear X-Men," Emma said, feeling the minds around her clearly once again. "Lorna, darling, be a dear and open up the ceiling, would you? Kurt—once you can see up a few floors, port us up. I think our friends could use a hand."

TBC . . .


	60. Under Pressure

People who have been following me for a while (and newcomers as well): HI!

Yeah. I'm still alive. And still writing, believe it or not (though my faithful, long-time readers are well aware of the long breaks I'm prone to taking during the beginning of each year). I'm just writing a bit more intermittently than all of you would like, I am sure.

Anyway, the buzzing of the new Wolverine movie has me irked—irked because I can't figure out how I feel about it. The thought of the Japan Saga being made into a movie makes me want to jump up and down with joy. But the thought of how they completely missed the boat for the Weapon X story makes me want to bury my head in the snow for an hour to numb myself to the inevitable disappointment (considering their history).

Happy way to avoid the problem? Realize that I haven't posted on this story in *months* and write out a chapter that has a version of Wolverine that I like and is the Wolverine I know and love.

Thank you all for your reviews, comments and support. Enjoy the chapter! I'm hoping to have the next up by the end of the month. :)

* * *

Chapter 60: Under Pressure

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine could run a mile in four minutes; Heather had timed him. He could have run to the ranger's station alone in less than ten minutes, had he been at this best. As it was, he staggered doggedly forward, feeling as if he would fall on his face at each step and only barely catching himself each time.

He counted his steps, pushing himself forward.

One step. Two steps.

He couldn't seem to reach three—his mind faltering away to a stupor of pain and greyness until he felt his balance waver. He snapped his mind to before he fell, time after time, and couldn't remember where he'd cut off. He started again.

One step. Two. His feet shuffled over the ground—no silence to them—and he left a trail of blood dripping in the dirt; it squished in his right boot with each step. Dust and blood mixed, wet and dry in his nose. He swallowed thickly, squeezing shut his eyes.

He had to get these people out. He could hear them behind him, whispering. Terrified.

The world tilted, and he blinked, throwing out an arm to catch himself on a tree.

One. Two. He opened his eyes. The forest was blurred, yet somehow too sharp. The trees warped around him—so far away, then right before him in the time it took him to blink his eyes. He didn't remember crossing the distance.

The Wendigo. It was probably hidden away, healing up. Then it would be back. Could already be back—right behind them, following the scent of his blood.

Wolverine stumbled on uneven ground—but there wasn't anything to trip on. He managed to stay on his feet, and gathered himself.

One. Two.

He kept his claws in front of him, tearing through any foliage that got in his way. He had to stay ahead of them—couldn't let them see how much he was struggling. They smelled terrified, and if that creature came back he was the only thing standing in the way of it, no matter how Colton held fast to the gun in his hands. Wolverine knew the type of beast this was: guns didn't mean a thing to it.

He couldn't say how long it was before he saw the log-built structure ahead. Logan shuffled forward, half bent over himself. Could feel new blood leaking through the flat taste of old on his tongue. Felt like he'd gone days without water, no matter how much he'd drunk from the water skin. He shivered, but sweat made his hair cling to his face. He could feel their eyes on his back.. Could hear the low growling in his throat, but didn't have the mind to stop it.

He stopped, watching the forest as the rangers helped the lady and kid out of the forest and towards the building.

They unlocked the door and he turned and staggered towards the cabin.

One. Two.

Three.

_Snakt._

He passed the threshold.

"A-ain't over," Wolverine panted, bent over with his arm across the blood-soaked flag as they stepped inside the cabin and Ranger Colton bolted it closed behind them. He fixed his gaze on the kid ranger. Brady. "Gotta . . . gotta phone?"

The young man nodded, staring at him as he started to head towards a desk, but Wolverine waved him off, pointing to the lady. "Take care'a her."

He grabbed the phone. It was slick in his blood-scarlet hand, but he ignored it, reaching into his pocket and fumbling out a card flecked with mud, wrinkled from rain, and now half-soaked with blood. Department H. Heather and Mac's numbers. He hesitated over Heather's number, but then dialed and slumped back against the wall, but refused to slide down to the ground.

"Hello?"

"'s me," Logan said, bringing a hand to his face. He suddenly felt tired enough to drop into a dead sleep—standing or no.

"Wolverine? Where the hell are you?" Mac's voice was sharp. He had been right to call him—man was business first.

"Rockies. Ranger station #47. Got a . . . situation here."

A pause. "A situation? What's your sit rep?"

"Monster thing—big, white, hairy. Two . . . no, three times as big as a grizzly, an'—an' he's healin'. Not . . . not gonna be put down easy." Words tumbled through his lips like dribbling blood—slurring. Could Mac even understand him? Felt twice as hard to talk as it'd ever been, yet at the same time, more fluid. He closed his eyes, focusing on the words, but everything seemed grey and hazy. "Been . . . been chowin' on campers up here. Ranger says it sounds like a Wendigo." He opened his eyes, focusing on a map on the wall across from him. Or trying to—it warped and blurred in his vision.

"Wendigo? That's a myth."

"Yeah." Wolverine squeezed his eyes shut against a wave of pain, but while his lungs seized, it didn't make him want to fall into a fetal position and die. That was an improvement, slight as it was.

He could still feel himself healing: tugs and twists in his gut like invisible needles and threads sewing him back together from the inside—but the pain was finally lessening. It'd be finished soon, even if it left him stiff and feeling weak as a newborn. He swallowed another wave of nausea as his stomach twisted. He wondered if he could throw up without a proper, fully-healed stomach in place. He didn't want to find out. "Need a chopper—somethin' t'catch 'm. He's fast, an' . . . he ain't comin' quietly. C'n meet him good 'nuff in a fight, but there's people here—they need to get out of here."

"I'll have a chopper in the air in ten."

Too long. Wolverine's mind raced through the grey shadows of pain, calculating despite the haze. Landmarks and distances he'd noted without conscious thought crossed with the crosswinds off the mountains. Game trails and rises passed down the river, to the ledge where he'd fallen and his blood still wet the bank. He felt all over again the catch of his claws in the beast's flesh, watched as the white fur crawled back over the scarlet runnels, measuring the speed—calculating how much deeper he would have to cut, and how much faster. He knew the path he must run, the direction he should go to cut the beast off from downwind, if it had continued in the same way. Knew how far to go and where, to pick up his trail, no matter how forgotten the going had been.

A thousand calculations in seconds, made unconscious with an instinct born of years of hunting—and being hunted. Automatic and thoughtless, no matter how long gone he was—and far too deeply imbedded to be worn down by pain or exhaustion.

"I'll be trackin' 'im'," Logan said, reaching over and taking a radio from the desk. "Last I scented, his path was leadin' south-south west. I'll be on radio channel . . . " He trailed off, staring at the strange thing in his hands. Channel? South-south west?

_What'd he been saying? What was he saying?_

"We use frequency 164.9875 for ranger business," Colton said from the lady's side.

Wolverine looked down at the box in his hand. A radio. Like a phone, but didn't have to be connected to anything, even if it didn't work as far. "Frequency 164.9875," he repeated, and another word floated to the front of his mind. "Copy?"

"164.9875, heading south-south west. I copy," Mac repeated. "And Wolverine? Good luck."

He hung up, the smallest of wry smiles pulling his lips at the man's clear enthusiasm—no matter how hard he was trying to hide it. This was what he had wanted, after all? A damn super-hero to fight some damned super-monster from hell.

Wolverine straightened, pulling away from the wall's support. "You can't be serious," the older ranger said, staring, but he didn't ask any questions. He'd seen more than one impossibility already today.

"What . . . what d'you know about wolverines, ranger?" Wolverine flicked the power on the radio and adjusted the frequency. It showed red numbers, and it didn't take long to figure out how to set it to the right one.

"Ran into one once. Got a picture of it facing down a wolf pack for a deer they'd taken down—the wolves gave up first, but not before he'd ripped out one of their throats. Vicious bastards. Rather face down a bear."

Wolverine nodded. That sounded just about right.

* * *

_Now:_

It couldn't have been more than an hour since Kitty had entered the metal fortress, but it felt like ten times that.

At least she'd figured out what had happened to the others; their powers had been leeched away, somehow. She could feel it wearing down on her, and her hand was slick with sweat around Kylee's from the exertion.

The last wall she went through had left her breathless—and not only because it was getting harder to hold her breath. Pulling through the metal felt like walking through mud—the molecules pulled at her like tar, tearing at her. She unphased, panting as she held Kylee.

"I need a break," Kitty said, lowering the girl. She leaned against the wall, wiping sweat from her brow.

Kylee looked at her hands. "I feel funny," she said.

Kitty rubbed her own hands together; they tingled, like they'd fallen asleep as they passed through the last wall.

"Magneto," Kitty breathed, looking down the newest hallway they'd found themselves in. It looked exactly the same—they could have been wandering in circles for all she knew. "He must be dampening our powers somehow." It would explain why Frost had gone silent, and the conversation before. Logan's hands must not have healed up right after he'd popped his claws.

"Don't like it," Kylee complained, pulling at her ears slightly as her nose twitched. She frowned. "Don't like it at all."

"We'll head out soon," Kitty said. "Just . . . a little higher. If we can find whatever Magneto's using to block our powers, we can turn it off and find everyone else."

Hopefully they were all right.

Kitty took a hold of Kylee's small hand again, walking quickly down the hall.

She turned a corner and stopped dead, all but face-to-face with a bulky stranger wearing a thick grey metal helmet. He stared at them with just as much surprise.

She stiffened, and the man punched out. Kitty phased without thinking, and Kylee cried out. Kitty gasped, losing her air at the buzzing pain that shot from head to toe. She could _feel_ the man's hand push through the cells of her face; it burned like flame.

The man jerked back with a shout of pain, shaking his hand as if burned. Kitty staggered backwards, barely keeping her grip on Kylee, though she couldn't stay phased. The man but didn't strike at her again, but squared his stance and spread his fingers. Kitty tensed, eyes watering, ready to dive or phase again—no matter the pain—if they had to dodge whatever attack this mutant pulled out of the air.

Nothing happened.

Kitty didn't move, but neither did the man. They stared at each other, and Kitty took a slow step back, wondering if she could make a break for it.

Then she felt it.

A rumbling, so deep and low that it felt closer to a vibration starting deep in the earth. It started in her teeth and echoed down to her toes. The metal floor shuddered, and a growing rumble like the sounding of a massive gong began to build in the air, pressing on her eardrums.

The floor shuddered, and Kitty turned to run. A sudden ripple in the floor dropped her to one knee, and Kylee fell down, screaming.

The trembling in the floor wasn't the only effect. The metal tower reverberated, a sound building on itself a thousand times over. The sound made her teeth rattle, compressed her lungs, pressed on her ears like being twenty feet under water.

She dropped Kylee's hand and rushed forward. She took a breath, phasing as another blow scorched through the right side of her body. She pushed through his arm, unphasing behind him and shoving him hard. The man stumbled, and his balance compromised, the shaking slowed. He growled, swinging wildly at her. She phased instinctively, gasping with the difficulty, but ducked at the same time. She narrowly dodged the blow and, seeing spots, she kicked out—unphasing as she kicked at the back of his knee. He staggered with a shout, cursing in some harsh language.

Kitty staggered back towards Kylee, shaking and wiping sweat from her eyes. The floor seemed to sway, even without the man's mutant powers.

"Kylee," she said, reaching out her hand without looking away from the man. A small hand slipped into hers.

"You are not a fighter," he said in a thick accent, limping forward. "Hold still, and we can end this quickly."

The sound began again—an earthquake with the epicenter just feet from where they were. Kitty gritted her teeth, pulling Kylee after her. She pushed a hand in front of her, as if to try and carve an easier path through the wall in front of her. She touched the metal, and for a terrifying instance it seemed to curve around her hand, as if trying to swallow her whole. Kitty screamed, pushing forward, the sound like static in her ears. The scream cut off as metal slipped into her mouth, into her ears, swallowing her whole.

The wall . . . too thick—not going to . . .

She stumbled into the air, barely holding onto enough conscious thought to stay phased as she dragged Kylee out behind her. The girl immediately collapsed on the bare floor, sobbing. Kitty blinked, realizing that she'd already dropped to the floor—her knees hurt from the fall, but somehow that felt too far away, after the pain.

Like squeezing herself through a sifter, cell by cell. Tears squeezed out of the corner of her eyes and she wiped them away furiously, pushing sweat-damp hair from her face.

_Dong_. _Dong!_

The floor trembled, and Kitty looked up. Someone was pounding on the wall, making the bare room around her tremble. She didn't know if he could shake the wall down, but they couldn't stick around to find out.

She'd heard about mutants that could control earthquakes; somehow Magneto must have made his own goons immune to . . . whatever he was doing. How would she fight against mutants with full powers? How could the others.

Kitty climbed to her feet—pushing herself up with her arms and then leaning against the wall. "Kylee. We have to go."

"No. No—I c-can't—" the girl trembled.

Kitty reached down, picking the girl up. Her arms felt like putty, but she held her tight, letting her ground her. Her throat tightened as she looked around: no doors, no windows. Only one way out.

She swallowed, trying to stop the tightening in her own throat as she took a step forward. _Wolvie wouldn't hesitate. He's faced worse._

He wouldn't talk about what happened to him, but that didn't stop the kids from doing so. Jubilee had talked some, and Rogue. Not with details, but with that hushed, almost reverent voice about the horrible things that their feral teacher had gone through. Yet still, he pressed on. And he pressed on despite knowing full well what pain he was bound to face.

She'd seen it herself. Seen him shake off a bullet, not even hesitating to put himself in harm's way to protect others. And screw the logic that he could take it because he wouldn't die—he hurt just as much as anyone. She'd seen enough to see that.

Still, he kept going.

It was strange, but somehow in beneath the rough exterior, contrariness, and general pessimism . . . the fact that he kept going revealed a relentless and surprising optimism.

Wolvie would keep going, no matter what. He'd keep fighting, no matter what. He'd never give up. Ever.

The thought of him—unwavering and defiant—grounded her. She could almost hear his voice.

_Suck it up, kid.__ What's the point of all that trainin' if yer just gonna give up when it counts?_

Kitty trembled, stumbling on the shaking floor, clinging to Kylee as if she was the only thing left in the world. She clenched her teeth, phasing as she drew close to the wall.

The floor shook in earnest just as she phased, but it didn't touch her. Flames burned from fingers to toes, burning her from the inside out as she pushed through the solid wall. She seemed to move in slow motion, gritting her teeth together to keep from screaming.

Swallowed up. She lost track of herself—burnt away from the inside out.

Kitty phased out of the far side, gasping. She dropped down onto the stairs on the other side, barely catching herself from stumbling down the steps. Kylee clung to her, gasping against her neck. Kitty recognized a stab of pain and looked down at her hand—she'd grabbed her necklace of the Star of David, and the points had dug into her palm, drawing small points blood.

She'd made it.

_She'd made it._

Taking a breath, she stood slowly, and Kylee's arms went tight around her neck.

"No—no. Please, no—" she whimpered.

"It's okay," Kitty said, her voice shaking. "We're going up, Kylee. Look—we're just going up."

She took a step forward, but her legs wobbled: the ground still trembled below her feet, though it was passing. "I—I need you to walk now, Kylee. Can you do that?"

She pulled Kylee along after her, until the little girl began to whimper in earnest, her ears drooping. Kitty picked her up again, holding her as she pushed up the stairs and into a hallway, ready to phase at the first sign of trouble.

Or at least try to phase.

The floor quivered under their feet—like an earthquake reverberating through tons of metal. Kitty braced herself and looked down the hall; the feeling vibrated in her teeth.

The mutant was still at it. Or had he run into the others?

"Is the building going to fall down?" Kylee asked, voice tiny as she clung to her.

"We'll be okay. That just means the others are in here too." She could hope as much.

She worried her lip as she moved forward again, stepping faster than before. She'd cursed Logan before when he'd made them run stairs in the mansion, but now her thighs burned even with the practice. So much for muttering about the uselessness of his exercises.

Not that she'd ever tell him that.

She was beginning to wonder if these stairs would ever end—she must be near the top of these towers, surely—when the stairway opened up to a massive steel-girded door, with no other way to turn.

It was almost absurd to see, after what seemed like miles

"Thank you," Kitty breathed. She gritted her teeth the pain and phased her hand in as fast as she could, undoing the bolted lock before pulling back and pushing the door open. She stopped, Kylee's hand still in hers as she faced the wall of computers before her.

Cameras—muted TVs filled with broadcasts around the world. Lights flickered above thousands of buttons and controls, and a great broad window shone across the ocean—high enough to see as far as the horizon extended, and starlit sky blended into equally deep waves.

Kylee was dragging her feet as Kitty pulled her forward—she saw the small trail of fur shedding off behind the girl, but didn't stop from turning to the computer. She let go of the girl's hand, scanning over the controls, and furiously flickering buttons.

"Darn," Kitty muttered. She wasn't half bad at figuring out computer systems. She'd even worked on Cerebro once or twice, with the professor overseeing her—and that was as complicated as anything she'd ever come across.

She didn't have time to try and figure this one out.

She stood up out of the chair, looking at her hands. "Stand back, Kylee."

The little girl obeyed, her hair flat and drooping as she moved away from the console, looking a bit faint as she wavered on her feet. Kitty slowly lowered her hands palm-down towards the controls. Her hands brushed metal—palms flat against the unyielding cold surface. She took a deep breath_._

Ignoring her exhaustion, she summoned up her willpower and _pushed_.

Pain shot up Kitty's arms as the metal pulled at her, slipping between the molecules of her fingers like unwilling jello—pushing back against her. Gritting her teeth, she clenched her eyes shut against the stinging tears of pain as she pushed forward—first through skin, then bone—sinking into the computer as sparks began to fly up around her.

Electricity flashed, and she sank down, digging deep and throwing out her arms to catch as many circuits as she could. She crawled forward, each inch agonizing, and then suddenly—freedom.

The pain vanished, the molecules parted through her—and suddenly, she was falling.

She almost gasped—but there was no air here, in the darkness half-sunk through the floor her head deep in the computer. She swam upwards, climbing out of the console just as Magneto floated up through a hole he'd opened in the floor, his hair wild.

"_X-Men!"_ he snarled. "Always taking from me what is mine!"

He gestured at her, and a chunk of metal flew at Kitty and, exhausted, Kitty didn't react in time. It struck her forehead and she went down, falling sharply against the panel before sliding down onto the floor and lying there, unmoving.

"Kitty!"

A small fur ball appeared out of nowhere, streaking orange across the room and launching itself onto Magneto's shoulders. Small claws raked his face, and Magneto whipped around with a cry half-pain half-rage, striking the girl across the room. Kylee's body struck against the metal wall and flopped onto the metal floor—limp.

"NO!"

The roar was half-animal—barely human. Wolverine bolted into the room, charging with claws extended, blood staining the length of his arms.

Magneto turned, blood running down his brow, and clenched his fists together.

A horrible _crack! _ripped the air, and Wolverine staggered mid-lunge. Blood flew up behind him as his legs bent backwards—contorted uselessly back on themselves as he slid across the ground, roaring in agony. Magneto gestured sharply, slamming his body against the wall hard enough to leave a dent.

"Animal!" he snarled. "You are a disgrace to mutantkind!"

"Logan!"

Rogue was right behind him through the door, but Magneto was wild. Metal ripped from the wall, catching her and Havok—trapping their hands well at their side.

"You attack me in _my_ house! In _my _country!"

He turned sharply—fast enough to see Wolverine launching himself at him—ruined legs or no. He caught him in the air, slamming him down as Wolverine's very bones began to dig inward, crushing him from the inside.

"AAAARRRRRGGGGGGGHHHH . . . !" Logan's pain-filled roar gurgled as metal ribs cut into his lungs, filling his throat with blood—bursting the blood vessels beneath his skin as his bones cracked and contorted—unable to heal in their twisted metal confines.

Magneto's hand curled inward, ready to end this—but nothing happened. Logan wheezed a bubbling gasp as the pressure was eased slightly, and Magneto looked up sharply to see Lorna standing there—her face pale against her strange green hair, her expression furious, her hand outstretched towards him. Nightcrawler stood behind her, pale and breathless from teleporting so many so far.

"And you call yourself a fighter for mutant freedom," Polaris hissed, her hand shaking with the effort of holding off her father's power. "All lies! You despise the murderers who destroyed your family, your innocence—but you are as bad as they ever were!" She gestured—striking out enough to whip an invisible force against Magneto. He twisted, pushing aside the force and catching his balance and whipping to face her again. "You're afraid—your fear and hate has taken you over and blinded you. You can't see anymore!"

Magneto gestured easily, pushing the weakly moving Wolverine out of the way. He slid across the floor and slumped against the floor.

"Your powers are nothing against mine. You do not stand a chance," he spoke darkly. Metal curled from the wall, flinging towards Lorna. She threw out a hand, staggering, but managed to deflect it, straining against the force. "These X-Men attacked me in my home. They follow a fool's dream. We are the _future! _I fight for mutant freedom—this is all. I will have justice served! My daughter—_we are the future!_"

"Look at your justice,_ father_. Look at what your obsession has bought you. _Look at it!"_

Magneto turned towards Lorna's gaze across the room, and his expression faltered. Kylee still lay limp—unmoving. Wolverine had reached out a hand, trying to pull himself towards her—blood leaving a trail from where he had been thrown against the wall. His contorted legs lay uselessly behind him where he had finally collapsed, his fingers twisted as a single hand reached out—almost touching her own small hand even as shoots of metal had twisted up, curling out of the ends of his fingers. Blood leaked out of his limply-hanging lips, dripping onto the floor.

Magneto's hand lowered—his gaze stuck on the child's form. His stare was drawn to Kitty, then back to Kylee, and the ruined, still body of Wolverine—blood still leaking from his hands, his arms, his face.

"If this is what you will do to get your _utopia,_" Lorna finished, furious tears choking her voice. _"_Killing _children?!"_

"Oh God," he said, his voice a horrified murmur. "_What have I done?"_

The sound of falling metal filled the room as Magneto shrank, the X-Men's restraints clanging to the ground as they were set free. Emma rushed forward from the doorway, checking Kitty's pulse next to her.

Magneto moved forward, kneeling beside Kylee—but he couldn't seem to bring himself to touch her. Nightcrawler came to his side, carefully turning her as he took her pulse. "She's alive."

"Logan?" Rogue's voice broke as she approached the misshapen body. She felt for a pulse with experienced but shaking fingers. "He ain't breathin'," she whispered. "Lorna!" She whipped to face the pale woman. "Put him right!"

"I—I can't," she whispered, her voice small, her face coloring enough to almost match her hair. "I—it's a mess, Rogue. I . . . I don't even know where to start."

"I will."

Magneto stepped forward. All eyes followed him as he raised his hand towards Logan's body.

The sound was sickening—the sight no less so. Wolverine's body shook—then suddenly lifted, straightening slowly with cracks as bones were rebroken, straightened. Metal moved beneath his skin like snakes, curling around bones, settling in their places.

Logan's eyes shot open, blood streaming from his tear ducts.

"U—aaaaaaaa. . . . aaaaarrggggghhh!" he screamed. A bloodshot eye—the pupil half-red from broken bloodvessels—fixed on Magneto. Fists clenched. _Sn-kt! _Metal caught on metal—part of his wristbone still bent. Two misshapen claws popped from his right hand, spraying out blood.

Magneto didn't move—his eyes closed as he felt the metal shifting under his power.

"Logan! He's helpin' now. Hold still," Rogue tried, but her voice cracked.

Rogue had no idea how he stayed conscious—she bit her tongue to keep from begging him to just let go. But he glared at Magneto with a single eye until his last bone slid back into place and he was lowered to the floor, and he rolled onto his side, spitting out a choking mouthful of blood.

Logan rolled over, not even bothering to wipe the blood running from eyes before he dragged himself to Kylee's side. He reached out a shaking hand to check her, then seemed to notice the blood dripping down his arms like he'd bathed in scarlet. He wiped his fingers uselessly on his torn plaid shirt, but still left a slight smear of red where he reached to touch the girl.

He checked her eye dilation, feeling gently along her crown, her sides. Cracked rib, good goose egg too.

If the kid had been normal she would have broken her neck.

Logan looked to Magneto, his blood-stained visage turning his glower to something truly terrifying.

"Leave," he growled. "I ever see ya again—ever hear of trouble 'cause of you—and I'll kill ya."

He slipped a hand under Kylee's head, lifting her more gently that would have been thought possible. He brought her up against him—cradling her against his blood-spattered plaid shirt as he stood slowly—pain stabbing him at every slightest move, every breath.

"I can take her, Wolvie," Rogue offered soberly.

"You and Polaris—go get the jet," Logan rasped, no-nonsense. "Bring it to shore, we'll hit the air."

Lorna stared at him, but nodded. She glanced back to her father.

"I never want to see you again," she said plainly, then turned to the shattered window. Metal slid off the wall, forming a disk that she stepped onto and took flight next to Rogue, disappearing into the sky.

TBC . . .


	61. Blackbird Singing

Hello! I'm not going to bore you with the long list of the ways RL has gotten in the way of my writing this time around, but between the Wolverine movie that just came out, San Diego Comic Con, and a slew of reviews that I just got when I logged on for the first time in months, I felt inspired to post a new chapter.

Just to confirm, though-yes, this story is STILL ongoing, ridiculous as that is. Yes, I am planning on finishing it. One of the things that has had me wrapped up these last few months has been me being neck deep in an original story that makes this fanfic look like a child's picture book by length, so this story has been dropped to the place where I go when writer's block isn't let me write anything else and I just need to get words out somewhere.

Before I dive in, a couple quick responses to some few of the wonderful reviews I've received (!):

MissMilkMaid: I *love* the art! I want to echo Silverthorne's praise in Wolverine's expression - the mix of emotions is fantastic! It makes me want to break out the lead and pencil again. :) Thank you for your review! I'm glad you're liking the story.

silverthorne: I wish I had time to respond to *aaaall* the amazing things you've said these past few months both to me and to the other reviewers. Your perspective is wonderful, and I love how often you bring things up that I completely agree with. Take your mention of Frankenstein, for instance: this fanfiction was absolutely inspired by the original book. When I read it for the first time back in high school it resonated right along the same lines of Wolverine for me, and I think it's awesome that you see that too.

And to both Jeanniebird and silverthorne and your conversation of the meaning pain and the focus in this story: I agree that the last number of chapters have hit more on the "action" mode of the story rather than the introspection and character development, which I think is one reason that they've been harder for me to write. And no, I'm most definitely not angry at any critiques (I choose this word over criticism, because I don't feel that anything that has been said has been negative), and I certainly encourage any discussion that might spin out from my writing. I have *loved* reading your discussions through the reviews-keep it up!

Anyway, I really ought to write more, but there is so many reviews and discussions from you lot in these last few months that it'll take more time than I have, and I'm on vacation in California right now and am about to head out to the beach. So enjoy the chapter, and please do review - I'll do my best to make better individual responses this time around. :)

* * *

Chapter 61: Blackbird Singing

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine walked, or at least walked as best as he could: a limping half-stagger, somehow still managing to stay fairly quiet in the wood.

He couldn't run at first—he needed to heal, and extra movement didn't help. But as minutes slid by he walked faster, and it didn't take long for him to get back to the crashed jeep. He half-slid down the incline, stiff as hell, but nearly whole. Phantom jolts of pain and remembered agonies kept him alert for the hunt.

It was easy to pick up on the Wendigo's trail. Mythical creature or not, it'd been injured, and blood smeared along its pathway as it ran. Even as the droplets slowed from splashes to trickles to nothing, the air was rife with its stench and drying blood.

But something wasn't right. A beast, when afraid or injured, had a scent to it_,_ and this trail was . . . different. A fleeing animal either set to outrun or out-hide whatever threatened it.

But the Wendigo didn't smell afraid. It didn't have the smell of an animal fleeing for safety. Wolverine stopped on the trail, the leaves of the trees above him casting a camoed pattern of shadows on his forehead.

The Wendigo wasn't running. It was _hunting._

Wolverine knew the smell, knew the feeling. Remembered hunting a herd of elk in late winter, not long before the green was just beginning to appear, when he was still weak from the cold and hunger. Remembered charging the herd, only to be met by a kicking bull elk he'd dismissed as easy prey. He'd taken a hoof in the eye and another in the gut before he'd had a chance to blink. He'd rolled away from getting trampled, and the bull had leaped back from his claws, snorting and pawing the ground once before bounding after his herd—but not without pausing once and staring back at Wolverine as he had climbed back onto his feet.

Half blinded, coughing blood, and weakened from the long winter, Wolverine hadn't bothered with the buck again, but had followed the curve of the land and came about to where the herd had fled. He took out the front elk—a younger buck, with his newly growing antlers just velvety stubs on its head. The herd had scattered, and by the time he'd smelled the bull elk on the ridge he'd already stuffed half his stomach full.

He hadn't been looking for a fight—he'd been looking for food, and going for the weak was what predators did.

Logan whipped back the way he had come and, stiffness and pain put aside, he _ran_. He scrambled through brush, claws slashing through foliage that got in his way.

He didn't need to see the evidence that his instinct was right—he smelled and heard the trouble before the cabin was in sight, and he only sped up as the ranger station came into sight.

The Wendigo had smashed into the cabin through a window, tearing through the framing and insulation as if it were paper. Wolverine dove through the ruined wall, landing in the glass and rolling quickly to his feet. Ranger Colton was down, unconscious and bleeding in the corner, the lady screaming behind Brady, who'd lost his gun and clutched his bloody arm close to him.

The pale beast twisted away from them as Wolverine leaped in, its shoulders hunched and its head brushing the ceiling. It hesitated at the sight of him, then opened a mouth of finger-long teeth and roared. Its breath smelled like a cold grave.

Wolverine craned his neck upwards to look at him, panting and teeth bared, his hair clinging to his head with blood and sweat.

He could run and hope it'd follow, or end this fast. And Wolverine was not one for running.

The Wendigo charged.

Wolverine dodged the strike, ducking to the side. Claws slashed through the wall, slicing through plaster and bending pipes beneath. Wolverine felt the claws swipe his still-tender back; he was tired and the beast seemed faster than ever. He popped his own claws, dodging a table as it shot through the air and shattered against the wall. He leaped onto the desk on the same movement, skidding on the papers and scattering them onto the floor. He kicked off the wall, dodging another swipe and lifting over the Wendigo's back. His gut stretched uncomfortably, still-new scar tissue pulling. He grunted, digging his claws thick into the Wendigo's back. He slashed deep and hot, bitter blood splurted across his face.

The Wendigo flailed, trying to claw him off his back. He reeled backwards, slamming Wolverine against the wall. The cabin shook. The lady was still screaming—they had pulled into the corner with Colton, the exits blocked by the fight.

The Wendigo snatched his arms and hands in a massive fist, ignoring the cut of the blades in its palm and throwing him across the room. Wolverine hit the wall back-first, knocking the air out of him. Spots flashed in front of his eyes.(())

He looked up, dazed as he stumbled to his feet. Seeing a moment of weakness, the Wendigo charged. Wolverine's reaction was as much instinct as thought—his hand shot out, grabbing the canister he'd fallen next to him and throwing it in the Wendigo's face.

Kerosene sprayed upwards sinking into still-tender wounds clawed across its mangled face.

The Wendigo howled, but had mind enough to flail out and hit Wolverine across the room again. He slammed into the heater, and flames splashed out across the floor like water, crawling up the Wendigo's fur in moments. Wolverine leaped back onto the tabletop, crouched as the cabin erupted in heat and howls.

The Wendigo flailed, white fur curling to black, it's face aflame. With a last wild howl, it pushed out through the hole in the wall and ran.

Flames had already engulfed the gasoline, arcing up the wall and swallowing half the room. Heat scorched Wolverine's face, smoke billowing into the air.

"Go!" Wolverine snapped, retracting his claws as he jumping off the table and grabbed the kid, pushing the lady and kid-ranger ahead of him. They pushed out of the cabin, running a safe distance away. The roof was already aflame, and tongues of fire filled the window, licking at their feet. Wolverine could smell the Wendigo's burning flesh, could still hear its howls receding into the night.

He looked after it—panting, bleeding anew, rage of the fight draining away as though someone had pulled the carpet out from under him.

But this had been a different kind of rage, hadn't it? Not the hatred he'd felt fighting the soldiers in the wilderness—the hatred he could still feel, boiling in his veins. Fighting this Wendigo . . . it was dangerous, unnatural—rabid, even. But not evil.

Just an animal—hungry, wild. In the wilderness, alone, he might have let it pass. It probably would've left him alone, too. _Hadta do it_.

Had to protect the others, the people.

People complicated everything.

"Ranger Colton!" Brady gasped, pulling him out of his exhausted stupor.

They'd left the old man behind.

Wolverine shoved the kid back to his mom, and didn't try to speak before he bolted back towards the flames that were already dancing up the sides of the building.

He leaped over the flaming debris around the broken window. Smoke burned his eyes, the hot air immediately beginning to cook his lungs. Wolverine held up a hand and stumbled forward, grabbing the ranger and throwing him over his shoulder, as he hacked against the smoke.

_Fire_.

He could feel the heat curling his skin, burning through his eyelids, cooking his eyeballs through. Could hear himself snarling. Could hear the gas pushing into the room, the calm beeping signaling the end of it. Burned just enough to pull his weakened body down, to sear the skin from his flesh and leave the ends of the nerves exposed. Screaming.

But no—that was not now. The fire, the pain was there, but it was the walls that flamed—wooden, not metal. The heat licked at his skin, nipped at his cheeks, flash-drying his eyeballs as he lifted Ranger Colton from the floor and ran through the flames. He could feel his hair burning away—the smoke choked his throat, burning his lungs. He pulled Ranger Colton's shirt over the unconscious man's mouth and carried him out.

* * *

_Now:_

The Blackbird soared uninterrupted across the sky—the Atlantic Ocean passing glimmering beneath them in the light of the stars.

Kylee had awoken briefly, but now sat curled up on Nightcrawler's lap, her head tucked under his blue chin—both of them dozing in the dimmed light of the plane. Kitty was nodding off, her head shifting against the window where she had been watching Africa pass them beneath not long before. Havok and Lorna had fallen asleep, her head on his shoulder.

Wolverine sat in the pilot seat, eyes hard as they stared into the darkness before the plane—unmoving. He'd rinsed off his hands and face, but dried blood still streaked along his neck and cheeks, even if the external wounds were long healed.

"Ya mind if I sit?"

Logan's eyes flickered towards Rogue and he grunted. She plopped down, taking a drink of water from a bottle.

"Care for a sip?"

He frowned at her, and she shrugged, tipping back the bottle and downing the rest. She wiped her mouth, eying him. He sat half-hunched in his chair, the seatbelt forgone as was usual—even in the Blackbird. His eyes were steady out the window, but there was a glossiness to them—like a fever burning away deep inside, far below the surface. But his jaw was tight, his expression flat.

"You know, you really should wear a seatbelt," she said dryly.

Logan barely glanced at her, then breathed out through his nose shortly—a chuckle that lacked the energy to bring it to life.

Rogue lifted an eyebrow. "You doin' okay?"

"Yeah. Fine." His voice was blood-hoarse, like when Bloodscream had cut clean through to his backbone.

But that wasn't it—not this time. Nothing had cut his throat, nothing had pierced it.

_Screams_, Rogue thought. She thought she could still hear him—could still hear herself, screaming in unison with his pain.

She rubbed her wrist, remembering how it felt to have her flesh burned down to the bone, to feel the metal breaking through unhealing skin—to feel her life pulled from her.

But that hadn't been her pain. It'd been _his_.

He glanced at her again, and she stopped rubbing her wrist—stupid. She refused to look long at his own wrists—still raw and red, his skin up his arm pocketed and angry red where silver metal had torn from his pores. Didn't comment on the small tremors that ran down his arms, now and again—muscles spasming as they pulled back into place after being shredded and stretched from their natural places. Still healing.

_Screams_. Screams of black and red and blinding white. It made her—Rogue, Carol, and the mixed-up thing that she was—want to cry.

Instead, she sucked it up. Wolverine didn't take sympathy well. Or empathy. He did what he felt like he had to do, and didn't like it when people made a thing of it.

"Liar." Rogue crumpled the plastic bottle—pressing it into a small ball the size of a dice before flicking it towards the garbage. It landed neatly inside. Logan glanced at her. "Last time I saw you break a bone it took you a good day of limpin' around t'get back to speed—and half of that was with a splint. Metal back in place or not—walkin' around right now's gotta be hell."

"Not walkin'."

Rogue sighed in exasperation. "It's all right to take a break now and again, Wolvie. Everyone knows you got pounded. It's not gonna seem weak to anyone to give yourself a bit of time t'recover. Hell, we _felt_ some'a what you did, and I wager it wasn't the worst of it. Summers's twice as scared a'you as he was before, but hell if you didn't earn his respect."

Logan didn't reply, but just kept staring out the cockpit window, gritting his teeth and focusing on his breathing. It was an instinctive thing to do—and it helped center him. Not sure when he had learned that.

Rogue could say what she wanted, and he supposed that in a way she was right. But what was the point of taking a break? He'd heal one way or another—pain would fade soon enough, whether he was resting or not.

And resting . . . sometimes it seemed like resting only made things worse.

A soft rap on the entry to the cockpit made Rogue look up. Wolverine didn't move.

"Wolverine?" Lorna asked—her voice unsure. "Kylee's awake. She's asking for you."

"Take the controls," Logan said, flipping the control over to copilot. He stood and stepped back towards the back of the plane. His legs protested at holding him upright—shooting sharp stabs of pain from the inside of his bones to the center of his chest—and he reached out an arm to the side of the hatch, managing to keep from falling. The floor was still slick from saltwater—Lorna had fished the bird out of the water and crammed the emergency hatch back on, but it'd still take some cleaning until she was good as new.

Cyke had always taken an absurd amount of care for the 'bird. He was probably rolling in his grave right now.

Wherever that was.

Logan discretely used the seats he passed to lean against as he made his way back. Figured if he ended up on the ground it wouldn't be the easiest thing to get back up.

Adrenaline wearing off. Headache like a skull full of angry bees. The vibrating of the plane through his boots seemed to vibrate through his metal skeleton to his brain.

He felt . . . tight. Claustrophobic, like he was caught in a cage of his own bones. Hadn't felt that way in years. Not since the wilderness. He'd felt so heavy, then. So heavy . . .

"Wolvie!"

The kid had pulled out of Kurt's hold and seized hold of Logan's leg before he could blink. She shook, burying her face into the bloody hem of his plaid shirt.

Wolverine blinked at her, his muddled brain trying to figure what to do with her before he fell on his face.

"'s okay, kid. We're goin' home." He patted her on the head, then maneuvered out of her grip and took a seat. "C'mere," he said. "Let's see those eyes'a yers." Wolverine took her face gently in his hands, tilting her eyes up to the light. "Dilation lookin' okay. Got a nasty knock on the head, kid, but looks like ya missed a concussion. Good thing you got a thick skull."

"Not as thick as yours," Kylee said, fearless.

Logan chuckled—a low, soft rumble that was surprising to hear from his blood-creased face. "Guess you're right."

Kylee reached out a hand to brush his face, though Wolverine pulled back from the contact. "You're hurt."

"Nothin' that'll last, kid."

Alex watched them from across the plane. Wolverine helped the feline-esque little girl into the seat next to him and helped her with her seat belt (though he again ignored his own). He muttered to the girl the whole while—grudgingly, by his expression and gruff voice.

"—get yourself killed, stupid kid. You ever find yourself in a fight like that, you just get one thing into your head—get down and get hidden. Find a corner and stay in it until I come and get ya. Bad enough you sneakin' aboard in the first place—"

"Surprising, isn't it?" Kitty asked, noticing Alex's gaze.

"Sorry?"

"Wolverine." She smiled as Kylee began to nod off, curling into Logan's side. The gruff man frowned deeply, but then awkwardly put a hand on the girl's shoulder, holding her from slipping. There was something terribly endearing about the whole exchange. "I used to be scared of him too, you know."

Alex frowned at her, ready to protest, Kitty's own expression was older than her years—understanding. She might be only a teenager, but she'd grown up fast. She'd had to.

"What changed your mind?" Alex asked instead.

"He's the most dangerous man I know," Kitty said, glancing over at him briefly before looking back down at her book. "I just realized that he'd cut his own heart sooner than let anyone around him get hurt." She paused. "He did that once, you know. Well, not cut his own heart out, but cut through his heart. The first time the X-Men fought Magneto. He had them all tied up in metal, and Wolverine popped his claws right through his chest to claw his way out. And that was before he let Rogue take his powers to save her life. Almost killed himself twice that night, and just to save someone he'd just met.

I know some people see him as just a killer, but he'd throw himself in front of a train to save even a complete stranger. If that doesn't make him a hero, I don't know what does."

Alex didn't reply, still watching Wolverine. The man was struggling to get into his coat pocket without moving the kid. He pulled out a smashed cigar, considered it, and then stuck it in his grimacing mouth, unlit. He then let himself fall forward, one arm holding Kylee in place and the other elbow balanced on his knee, his hand pressed against his forehead. "Is he going to be okay?"

"Knowing him, he's not even going to let this slow him down," Kitty said, but while it sounded as if she was trying to convey exasperation, that was overriden by an open sense of . . . pride? Affection? No, that didn't pin it down. It was something strangely akin to reverence. Hero-worship at its peak. "I've never seen anything like this, but that's it—he never lets _anything _slow him down."

Oblivious to their conversation, Wolverine gave a soft snore around his crushed cigar, one hand carefully keeping Kylee from falling as she slept.

* * *

_Then:_

Wolverine lifted his head at the sound of the helicopter, but the others didn't even twitch—just murmuring softly amongst themselves, looking as haggard as he felt. But they couldn't hear it, could they? He looked over at them from where he sat on a lopsided bolder, counting to see how long it would take them to hear. Five seconds. Ten. Thirty. Wolverine tried to imagine how that would be, to be so helpless, unable to hear. But this was the way Heather heard, and Mac, and everyone. So deaf, so blind. Normal.

He coughed thickly, spitting to the side. Still clearing out his lungs. He'd done his best to take the brunt of the fire as he'd dragged the older ranger out—the other man was having trouble breathing, but he'd barely suffered an outward mark.

Finally, Brady lifted his red-haired head, turning his freckles to the sky. "Hey, you hear that? That must be them!"

He scrambled to his feet, but Wolverine didn't move. He looked up, his hands curling into fists. Waiting.

He didn't unclench his fists until the helicopter had landed, and he saw Mac hop down out of the passengers side, wearing loose exercise pants and a windbreaker—like he was heading to the gym, not a battle zone. A man with a medpack followed, making his way to the young ranger, who waved at him and ran forward, pulling him towards the older ranger and the mother and son.

Mac's grin slipped from his face as soon as he'd saw him. He hurried over, staring.

"My God," he breathed, going pale. "Wolverine, are you . . . ? God, what happened?"

Why was he looking at him like that? Wolverine looked down at his hands. They were red with damp blood and black with ash—or was that charred flesh, still clinging to his newly-forming skin? His face itched and burned; one of his sideburns had been completely burnt away, and he scratched the side of his face with a frown.

Dried blood was itchy.

"I'm fine," he said, his voice thick from the smoke. He swallowed. "Got water?"

Mac nodded and started shouting for water, and Wolverine frowned at him, wondering why he was so shaken.

He realized he still wore the charred and bloodied remnants of the Canadian flag around him and unwrapped it carefully, setting it aside. He was healed enough, now—just a puckered slash across his gut, growing smaller by the minute. He settled his torn shirts around himself to hide the worst of it.

Wolverine downed a whole canteen of water in one go, wiping his chin. Mac fetched water for the others, barking out arrangements to get them flighted out. Wolverine barely heard him, rubbing his forehead against a headache.

Blood loss. Needed to rest. Needed sleep. Needed more water, and food. Gut still felt empty, even with everything back inside like they were supposed to be. A newer slash on his thigh from the Wendigo's claws burned like fire as it healed. He stared out into the woods, body exhausted, eyes looking but not really seeing.

"Look at me, son." The slightly-accented voice was warm and deep, and came from right beside him.

Wolverine jerked his head up to stare at the man who had somehow knelt beside him without him hearing. Braided black hair was pulled back from a sun-dark face that looked somehow both youthful and ancient at the same time. Eyes black as obsidian watched him, and he reached across a tasseled leather coat to a bag that hung at his side. "My name is Dr. Twoyoungman. Do you know where you are?"

A stupid question to ask.

"The hell are you?" Wolverine grated. His mouth tasted like ash and blood.

"Dr. Twoyoungman. I'm a friend of Mac's."

He'd said that already. Damn names people handed out were useless.

Wolverine put his face back in his hands, rubbing his temples with hard thumbs. He shut his eyes and inhaled, breathing through the smoke and his own stink—blood and burned flesh was enough to churn his stomach.

This stranger, though—he smelled like green things. Grass and trees and good clean dirt, with a mix of spice from that pouch of his and his fingers. Smelled like leather and unscented soap—a scent that wouldn't stand out strong in the wilderness.

Logan could see his boots—soft leather, and worn: man knew how to make distance on his feet. Handmade, though they were quality by the even stitches. Made to walk quiet. Guy was a man of the woods. Spoke English with an accent—a member of one of the First Nations, by his looks and language.

Herbs, appearance, accent? Pointed to a medicine man. Something told him that it was a strange thing to have a medicine man and a scientist like Mac working together. What was this guy doing here?

He raised his head, squinting at him. "How do we take it down?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The Wendigo," Logan said, impatient.

Dr. Twoyoungman lifted an eyebrow. "I'm a doctor, Logan. Not a soldier."

Wolverine snorted. "That makes one of us. Go check on the others. I'm fine."

He turned his face away from him, hoping he'd leave him alone.

"Wolverine. I see you've met Michael?" Mac said as he returned.

Wolverine glanced at him. "The shaman and I were just talkin'."

"The what?"

"The shaman," Dr. Twoyoungman repeated, standing and looking at him with a newly considering look. "The title I bear for my role with the other realms."

"How'd you—oh. Never mind," Mac realized it'd be pointless to ask. "Well, he has some spells up his sleeve that we're hoping can help us out here, and this is_ the shaman's_ daughter, Anne Thompson, RCMP." Michael Twoyoungmen lifted an eyebrow at Mac's poking fun at him, but didn't comment.

Mac stepped back, nodding to a girl behind him.

There was no way in hell the blond lady was related to the doctor—she was pale as snow, and he was pure native blood. But they stood comfortably together, each aware of the others' movements without needing to look.

They moved like they'd fought together. Perhaps Mac knew what he was doing after all, bringing them on board. Though he wasn't sure how a RCMP was supposed to help with a thing as big as this.

"You may call me Narya," the girl said, her voice soft but clear as spring water. "It is the name my father gave to me, and there is nothing to hide here. Though I sense that you will call be by yet another name." For a moment her eyes looked strange—dark, with vibrant, unworldly blue glimmering in their depths—but the next moment they were back to normal.

Whatever that was supposed to mean. He wasn't sure how to read her, or this shaman.

"Magic?" Wolverine asked, lifting an eyebrow, but Mac just nodded. Whatever. Just another freak—they could explain the how of it however they wanted, if it made them feel better. He jerked his head towards Twoyoungmen. "Shaman says he ain't a soldier."

"Yet nonetheless I may be able to help," Dr. Twoyoungman said. "They say you fought a Wendigo."

Logan shrugged, though even that was stiff and grudging—even breathing seemed to amplify the aching that seemed to echo through his bones. "Kid over there said it was a myth."

"It is not just a myth," Narya/Anne said. She hadn't bothered moving past them, but just stood there, surveying the wreckage of the cabin, but with a scrutiny went beyond the blackened timber and the flames. She turned slowly, looking into the woods—the exact direction where the Wendigo had run off. Coincidence? "It was a curse from the Inua in these northern woods—a warning against human cannibalism. It has been many years since it has touched this land."

_It wasn't me_.

The thought was direct and clear through the drawn-out pain still crawling from his fingertips to his toes, and it surprised Wolverine—the rush of relief making him blink in surprise.

Heather had been right.

"I should be able to cure him with a transformation spell, if we weaken him enough," the doctor finished.

Wolverine scratched his face again, frowning at the shaman and the girl. "It'll take time. Figure the fire helped, but his fur's thick. His flesh . . . I've cut through steel easier to cut than him."

"The curse grants him healing, extra strength, and durability," Dr. Twoyoungman nodded. "I should be able to cure him—banish this curse and return the man—so long as you find him."

Wolverine looked at him sideways. "With yer . . . magic."

"It is a trivial word for the powers I call upon, but it is accurate enough."

Wolverine snorted in disbelief, turning his eyes to the forest. He had learned something about himself in the last couple minutes: he believed in magic about as much as he believed he could fly by flapping his arms. The idea wasn't just wrong, it was ludicrous.

It was one of the first times he'd had such a reaction, and it made him pause, wondering where the hell that reaction had come from. He had no reason not to believe in it—he'd seen strange enough things in his memory—but part of him just scoffed.

_Before_.

Before what?

Before Mac and Heather. Before the cold and the pain.

It was the first time he'd really considered that. The _before._ Heather had referred to who he was, where he had come from, but it'd felt so removed from him. Someone long dead who no longer affected him. Something long gone and burned to nothing.

But something had remained, hadn't it? The nightmares, the flashes of pain and fear and rage. The understanding of words and phrases he could never remember hearing before. His name. And then there was the complete lack of belief in magic.

Whoever he had been before, scraps of him still existed inside.

It was like looking in the mirror and having a stranger blink back—a feeling he was very familiar with, and one he didn't like one bit.

Wolverine frowned.

"He knows what he's doing," Mac said, misinterpreting his glower.

"Whatever." He could keep his bag of tricks, and call it whatever he wanted. As long as it worked, he couldn't care less what they called it. "Get in the air. Keep high. Don't go scarin' it off. I'll call when it's time."

"We." Wolverine looked at the lady, frowning at her as she pulled off her jacket and handed it to Shaman. She wore a white-slashed-ice blue blouse underneath, form-fitting and far too pale to hide well in the woods. "I can follow his trail just as well, Wolverine. Try and keep up."

Wolverine looked to Mac and the doctor, expecting a protest or _something_. But Mac just tossed him the walkie-talkie and Shaman nodded, grave but not overly concerned for his "daughter's" wellbeing.

He hoped the lady had something up her sleeve, because he had enough to worry about without a rookie to keep an eye on.

TBC . . .


End file.
